


That Holiday Magic

by oyhumbug



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Baked Goods, Baking, Cafe Owner Oliver, Christmas, Comedy, F/M, First Day of School, Fluff, Fourth of July, Halloween, Hanukkah, Holidays, John Diggle POV, Misunderstandings, Parent Oliver, Principal Diggle, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Rosh Hashanah, Teacher Felicity, Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, Yom Kippur, alternative history, alternative universe, food allergies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, so does that mean that Oliver Queen is accidentally, mistakenly wooing him, John Diggle, Principal of Starling Prep Elementary School?OROliver Queen (parent and cafe owner) bakes, Felicity Smoak (second grade teacher) avoids both him and his sweets, and John Diggle (principal) is stuck in the middle, passing messages back and forth between the two idiots. But... why?!
Relationships: John Diggle & Felicity Smoak, John Diggle & Oliver Queen, John Diggle/Lyla Michaels, Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, William Clayton & Felicity Smoak, William Clayton & Oliver Queen
Comments: 204
Kudos: 376





	1. The Fourth of July - Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Everyone! So, this was supposed to be my 2019 Christmas story. Well, the winter holidays came and went. Then, I thought I'd try to have it up by Valentine's Day. That didn't happen. While there are no holidays coming up any time soon that are featured in this story, I decided to post it anyway. We'll pretend. Plus, the sooner I get this posted, the sooner I can return to the other stories I have been working on, all of them continuations of previously posted fics and/or series. More on those soon! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this silly little ficlet.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Charlynn

**That Holiday Magic  
** **An Olicity Holiday Story**

**The Fourth of July - Prologue**

Despite serving in the military, John Diggle wasn’t one for celebrating the Fourth of July. He liked to think that he appreciated the country he fought for every day rather than just the single day marked to observe America’s freedom and independence. Plus, after three tours in Afghanistan, John Diggle and fireworks did not mix well. As a former soldier herself, his wife not only understood his aversion to fireworks but also commiserated with him, and his kids were too young and too distracted by the pool the family had just put in their backyard to notice that their friends and neighbors did anything different on that particular summer day.  
  
Instead, John usually holed himself up in his office, choosing to distract himself from barbeques and sparklers with prep work for the fall term. While school wouldn’t start until after Labor Day, summer vacation didn’t mean the same thing for an elementary school principal as it did his teachers and students. Plus, the building was air conditioned, and the halls were quiet, the perfect combination for productivity in Digg’s estimation.  
  
So, when there was an unexpected knock on his open office door, he would have been embarrassed to admit just how high he jumped, and he would have been astonished that all of the framed photos and knickknacks on the credenza behind his desk survived its collision with his large, leather chair if the nervous, hand wringing, blushing, and overly formal youthful woman standing before him wasn’t too distracted to notice. She shuffled her feet, and she avoided his gaze. She cleared her throat several times, and her voice, when she finally spoke, came out strained and cracked. “Ah, Principle Diggle? Do you have a moment?”  
  
“Miss Smoak... Felicity, of course,” and he stood as well in greeting, ushering her into one of the chairs before him. But Felicity didn’t sit; she paced. “What can I do for you,” he asked casually, curious yet still comfortable with his surprise visitor. Just as teachers weren’t supposed to have favorite students, principals shouldn’t have favorite teachers, but Felicity Smoak was his, and John considered himself quite lucky to have her working under his employ at Starling Prep Elementary. She was brilliant, and warm, and inspiring. He didn’t know much about her background but was aware that, nearly finished with her education, something tragic happened which derailed her life and her life plans. Whatever her loss, the unexpected career change was John Diggle’s gain. But thinking about the fortuitous turn life had provided him and his school made him start to fear that his luck was up. “Oh god, you’re not quitting, are you?”  
  
“What, no!,” Felicity gasped, quickly putting him at ease and, in her own shock, finally looking at him. The eye contact was short lived, however, and so, too, was her astonished stasis, her choppy steps being taken up once more moments later. “I just, you see, it’s… well, I have a small favor to ask of you.”  
  
“Anything,” he promised, retaking his seat and folding his hands confidently on the desk before him. And he meant it, because this was Felicity Smoak who was asking, and it was probably something simple and easy to give that only she would find a burden or worthy of her worry. Digg’s guess was that she wanted to start the tradition of a class pet… seeing how taken she was with his son’s puppy, a recent addition to their family and one of JJ’s birthday gifts.  
  
“I hate to ask this of you,” Felicity told him, still unwilling to actually say what she wanted.  
  
Again, Diggle tried to hearten and reassure her. “Felicity, it’s _you_. It cannot be that bad.”  
  
“Yeah… but I always promised myself I wouldn’t be _that_ kind of teacher.”  
  
With that, he had to admit that he was starting to become a little less sure of his employee and a little more apprehensive of what she wanted to ask of him. But he refused to show her his unease, because then she’d never get to the point of her visit. Instead, he praised, “you are a credit to our profession.”  
  
If she heard him and his compliment, she didn’t give any signs of believing it. Facing away from him, Felicity finally confessed her request, speaking in such a rush that Digg had to repeat her ask to himself several times before comprehension dawned. “I need you to make sure that William Queen is not assigned to my class.”  
  
Of all the things she might have wanted, William assigned to a different second grade teacher was the very last favor Diggle could have or would have predicted. William was a sweet, intelligent boy, and Felicity had never once expressed her preferences for or opinions against any student. She found a way to connect with all of her pupils, challenging those who were advanced and providing just the right blend of encouragement and extra help to those who struggled. Her test scores were superb, and John wasn’t the only one who thought she was an amazing teacher; parents raved about her, too. So, when faced with her rapidly voiced request, all he could mutter in response was, “why?,” noting the confusion and bewilderment in his own tone.  
  
Diggle watched as Felicity spun around on her signature panda flats, his eyes widening in trepidation when he observed the pleading gaze she leveled at him. Hands now clasped before her in a prayer like gesture, Felicity confessed, “Oli… Mr. Queen, William’s father, kind of has a reputation.” If that was all, if Felicity had fallen down the rabbit hole that was Starling City gossip and came out on the other side fearing for her modesty and virtue, he could confidently guarantee that Oliver Queen was not that womanizing playboy anymore - hadn’t been for quite some time, in fact. Before he could utter these reassurances, however, Felicity rushed forward, took the chair he had offered her several minutes before, and pressed onward with her plea, forgetting her earlier formality, “I can’t handle all of his baking, Digg! This might be a private, top ranked school, but I’m a teacher. I cannot afford to buy a whole new wardrobe, because Oliver Queen can’t resist stuffing me full!” John barely suppressed his laughter, and Felicity paused to rethink her words, burning scarlet as she added, “ ... with his goodies.” After another, shorter pause, she tacked on, “and you won’t survive an entire school year of me saying inappropriate things. Why do all things cooking sound so dirty?”  
  
He decided to leave the more dangerous aspects of her little speech alone and, instead, focus on something safer. “Since when do you care about your diet? Felicity, I know you. You subscribe to the same food pyramid as Buddy the Elf, and you have declared chocolate a vegetable, because it grows on a tree and, when raw, comes in the shape of a bean.”  
  
Grumbling, she said, “maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”  
  
“Just as long as that leaf is not spinach or kale, I’m sure.”  
  
“Baby steps,” she returned cheekily, rising back to her feet. “And the first step is to not have William Queen in my class this fall.”  
  
Feeling both amused and suddenly exhausted, Diggle sighed, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms behind his head. “Felicity, I offer you no promises. I can’t make teacher assignment decisions based upon your lack of impulse control when it comes to your sweet tooth. I have to do what’s best for the student… even if at the expense of your, well, expenses.” When she went to protest, he held up a placating hand, “but I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“That’s all I can ask,” Felicity graciously accepted, nodding her head in acknowledgement and thanks. Knocking her thumb over her shoulder, she indicated his doorway and the outer-office and hallway beyond it. “While I’m here, I’m going to head down to my classroom, finalize some plans for the fall. I swear, this place has the best AC in Starling City.”  
  
“Why else do you think I’m here, Smoak?”  
  
A young woman too smart for Digg’s own good, Felicity Smoak knew exactly why he took refuge in Starling Prep Elementary School that day, but she had the grace and good will not to say anything. Why she was hiding out at work that Fourth of July, especially when the students wouldn’t be back for two more full months, he wasn’t sure. He had to admit to himself that he was curious, but Diggle showed her the same respect she showed him and didn’t voice his interest. Instead, he returned her enthusiastic wave with a more sedate one of his own before going back to his work, unaware of the seed of suspicion planted in his mind that afternoon by his favorite employee. 

oo 

  
When his second visitor arrived, John was prepared for the interruption if not the interruptor. “Hey, Digg. Lyla said I could find you here.”  
  
Looking up and away from his computer screen, Diggle blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the soft office lighting. He smiled in welcome and at the mention of his wife. Lyla Michaels Diggle was far from the traditional wife and mother - one of the many things he appreciated about her, but she found her own, unique ways of taking care of her family. Sending Oliver Queen to him to make sure that he ate lunch was just such a way. It also explained how Oliver would have been able to get into the otherwise locked school, Lyla having given him her spare set of keys.  
  
Circling his arms overhead, John stretched his tight back and shoulders, his large frame always growing tense after sitting hours at his desk. “Some food sounds fantastic right about now.”  
  
Only… Oliver’s hands were empty, and a frown took over and dropped the previously pleasant lines of the other man’s face at the sound of Digg’s remark. “Uh, I didn’t bring you anything to eat,” Oliver said apologetically. Having met Oliver through the cafe he owned just down the street from Starling Prep Elementary, it was difficult for most, Diggle included, to separate the man from his business. Even after Oliver’s son became one of Digg’s students, Oliver still remained the guy who kept him caffeinated and in snacks. “I should have thought of that, though,” Oliver lamented, pulling Digg back from his musings. “Everyone knows that favors always sit better on a full stomach.”  
  
The younger man wasn’t wrong, but his sincerity and downbeat expression made John want to bolster his nerve. Given that Diggle had already been asked for one favor that day… and it involved Oliver, he had to admit to himself that his curiosity was piqued. He had a feeling he knew exactly what Oliver wanted from him, but he wouldn’t be able to satisfy his interest or prove his instincts correct if he didn’t settle Oliver’s anxiety first. “Ah, but then that would be considered a bribe. While I might not answer to the public, we private school principals have our ethics, too.”  
  
At that, Oliver finally entered the office, taking a seat across from Diggle and, with an ironic twist of his lips, argued, “not the ones in charge when I was a student here.”  
  
That’s right. Digg had heard the stories of the infamous Queen family _donations_ and the equally infamous son those _donations_ were issued for in order to help pass him along in his academic career. “Well, as a father to as studious and as well behaved of a boy as William, I’m sure you can appreciate my approach to school administration.”  
  
Oliver cleared his throat, fidgeting in his chair like he couldn’t find a comfortable position. “Speaking of William, he’s why I’m here.”  
  
“I assumed as much.”  
  
Still not getting straight to the point, Oliver hedged, “I was wondering if you’d started working on class lists for the fall yet.”  
  
“I haven’t, but, you know, they’ve been on my mind today.” It took every ounce of restraint Diggle possessed not to grin widely at the younger man across from him.  
  
“Because, if you were already finished with them, I wouldn’t ask, but…”  
  
“... but, since I’m not,” John interrupted, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. The pose was meant to look cunning, but, really, he was just trying to contain his amusement. “You’d like to request a specific class assignment for William.”  
  
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Oliver began… only to backtrack, holding up a hand to ward off what he must have believed to be Digg’s suspicions regarding his preference. “It’s not that I’ve heard anything bad about one of your teachers. Quite the opposite, in fact. And William loves school so much. He’s so smart, and dedicated to his studies… even at seven years old. I was never like that, and I can barely keep up with him now, and he’s only going into the second grade. But what I can do is make sure that he has the very best opportunities and the very best education. From what I’ve heard, that’s Miss Smoak.”  
  
“Felicity is quite intelligent,” Diggle agreed, still not giving away the game… or his opinion on the matter. And he certainly wouldn’t break Felicity’s confidences and tell Oliver that the very teacher he was requesting for his son had, just that same day, asked that William _not_ be placed in her class… not because of any fault of William’s but because of William’s father, Oliver himself.  
  
“A genius,” Oliver offered.  
  
“And she’s really good with kids,” Digg continued to compliment, wondering just how much Oliver knew about Miss Smoak and how much of that knowledge he’d be willing to admit in order to secure his son a position in her class.  
  
“The best.” Before John could even smirk at the praise Oliver bestowed upon Felicity, the younger man pressed onward, “and her specialties are math and the sciences, right, because that’s what really interests William. So, I thought she would be the right person to both challenge and inspire him. After all, we both know that I definitely can’t do either.”  
  
Of all the things Oliver had said to him that afternoon, his own lack of confidence and self-esteem might have been the most telling. While Diggle frowned at the father sitting across from him, he didn’t comment or try to bolster Oliver’s opinion of himself. Yes, he knew him outside of work and beyond his role as William’s principal, but they weren’t exactly best friends either. They shared greetings and cordial, passing comments at the cafe, and Oliver knew where he lived because he also knew Lyla, and she often ordered food to be delivered to their home, but Digg certainly didn’t feel comfortable giving Oliver parenting advice or a pep talk. However, what he could give him was the peace of mind that, learned himself or not, he had done right by his son’s educational needs. “I think William will flourish under Miss Smoak’s tutelage.” Holding his right hand out across his desk, John offered it to Oliver. As they shook, he said, “consider your favor granted.”  
  
“Thanks a lot, Digg,” Oliver expressed his gratitude as he stood up, preparing to leave. “I really appreciate this. And I promise not to make a habit of it either.”  
  
“If there’s one thing you can in good conscious make a habit of, it’s being a good father, Oliver. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the best for your son.” Even if Oliver wanting what was best for William put Diggle in an awkward position with his favorite employee.  
  
He just had to hope that, once Felicity had William in her class and realized for herself that she was the best fit for the precocious seven year old, she’d understand why John granted Oliver’s favor and not hers. Besides, he had faith that, by the time school started back up again in September, Felicity would have long forgotten her attempt to avoid sweets and eat healthy… if that was really even her true motivation for avoiding Oliver’s baked goods.  
  
While he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, Diggle suspected that both Oliver and Felicity were keeping something from him. So, if neither adult was ready to be completely honest and upfront, then he would do the best thing for the child. Growing up, he’d never imagined his future to be in education or administration, but he was a damn good principal… if he did say so himself, finding a perfect balance between structure and care, and, as a good principal, it didn’t matter why Felicity was suddenly claiming an aversion to sweets or why Oliver knew so much about and had such a high opinion of Miss Smoak, the second grade teacher; what mattered was William and what was best for him.  
  
Pausing by the open door, Oliver turned back long enough to say, “thanks again, Digg… for everything. The next time you’re in the cafe, drinks and muffins are on me - not as a bribe but as a thank you.” Before Digg could respond, Oliver tossed him the keys to the school that he had borrowed from Lyla, Diggle grabbing them right out of the air.  
  
“I’ll take you up on that offer.” Thank yous, especially of the food variety, his ethics not only allowed but appreciated. “See you around, Oliver.”  
  
“Happy Fourth of July, Diggle.”  
  
And, working or not, it kind of was just that.


	2. Labor Day/The First Day of School - Part One

**Labor Day/The First Day of School - Part One**

For John Diggle, as principal, the first day of school was more about being present than it was about being productive. Parents needed to see that he took an active role in their children’s education, teachers needed him to remind the students that he was there to support and back them up, and the students needed Mr. Diggle to show them that, while he might have been big, he wasn’t scary. So, he spent much of that early September day roaming the halls, providing directions for lost and confused parents and students alike, making random pop-ins to all of the classrooms, and even taking a turn or two at the ever-popular kickball games during recess.   
  
All in all, his efforts had been a success, and, combined with the sun shining outside and the spick and span shine an elementary school only possesses after three months of summer break, Digg was in a great mood when he made his way back to his office at the end of the day. With no incident reports or behavioral issues to write up, he’d make it home at a decent hour, too. All was well in the little world of Starling Prep Elementary… or, at least, it was until he walked towards his desk only to realize that he wasn’t alone.   
  
“Your secretary wasn’t at his desk, so I showed myself in,” Oliver Queen greeted him, standing up to offer Diggle his hand. The two men shook their greetings and then took their seats, Diggle smoothing down his tie but leaving his jacket unbuttoned as he reclined in his broad, leather chair.   
  
“He’s already gone home for the day.” After Oliver nodded in recognition of his explanation, Digg asked, “what can I do for you, Oliver? I hope everything is well with William.”  
  
“William’s great. He was so excited for today - had his backpack ready for weeks, and he was thrilled when I told him that he’d have Miss Smoak as a teacher this year.”  
  
“But…?,” John prompted, knowing that Oliver hadn’t stopped by just to, once more, express his appreciation for Diggle seeing to his wishes and placing William in Felicity’s class.   
  
“But I need your help… to make a good impression on Miss Smoak.”   
  
Leaning back in his chair and making it slowly spin from side to side, Diggle smiled widely. He’d found it telling just how interested Oliver had been in Felicity’s _teaching abilities_ , and now he was finally getting to the bottom of the younger man’s attention and appreciation. However, even if he was now getting the full picture from Oliver, that didn’t mean he was going to let him off the hook so easily. Watching the cafe owner squirm was half of the fun… and the only payment Diggle could expect. Steepling his fingers under his nose and before his lips, he murmured, “I see,” prompting Oliver to say and explain more.  
  
Oliver obliged, but what he said was the last thing John was anticipating… or _anticipating_. “Yeah, I really want to be William’s room parent this year. I was room parent last year for his class, and it gave me a chance to spend a little more time with him, and it’s a way for me to be involved with his education without messing up his actual school work.”  
  
Deflated, Diggle allowed his chair to crash forward with an awkward squeak. (He’d need to see about getting some WD-40 for the traitorous piece of office furniture.) “Oh.”  
  
“While I realize he’s only in second grade, everything is taught so differently now than it was when I was in school, and, before I know it, William’s work will be too advanced for me anyway, and I don’t want to interfere with what his teachers are telling him or get either of us used to me helping him with his homework, because, soon, I won’t be able to.”  
  
“So, let me get this straight: you want me to help you convince Felicity… I mean, Miss Smoak… that you should, what?, plan all of her class’ holiday parties?”  
  
“And attend all of their field trips.”  
  
Diggle might not have known Oliver Queen as a teenager… or even as a young twenty-something, but he knew that, if Oliver’s past self could see him now - tied up in knots at the very thought that he might not be the parent allowed to chaperone fifteen second graders at the Starling City Aquarium, he’d be struck silent with incredulousness… and hilarity. “Listen, Oliver, most parents hate that kind of stuff,” Digg began only to be interrupted.  
  
“Not at this school. It’s a status thing, I think. But it’s pretty competitive, being named room parent. That’s why I thought, if you could give me some insight into what Miss Smoak likes, food-wise, it might give me a leg up on the competition.”  
  
In all of his years of working as a principal, his conversation with Oliver Queen that afternoon had to be the strangest. If this visit was setting the precedent for the year, John at least knew he’d be entertained. And why did he get the feeling that, as soon as Oliver was gone, he’d be hearing from the teacher in question herself, her ears… and perhaps even her stomach… burning with all of the mentions.   
  
Deciding to approach the situation as seriously as he could, John told the younger man, “in today’s day and age, as educators, we’re supposed to promote healthy eating. Starling Prep Elementary might be more conservative than its public school counterparts when it comes to still upholding school traditions such as holiday parties, but that doesn’t mean that we want our students celebrating by eating junk food for an entire afternoon.”  
  
“So, you’re saying that I should make healthy food for Miss Smoak?”  
  
“No,” Diggle disabused Oliver of that idea. Because, even if Felicity claimed to be turning over a new, greener leaf, his point was to discourage Oliver from cooking for her entirely. “Don’t send Miss Smoak food.”  
  
“But you always like when I send in baked goods?” Yet, despite this being true, there were no cookies, cupcakes, or homemade candies for Diggle in sight.   
  
Employing a different tactic, Diggle suggested, “why don’t you just _talk_ to Miss Smoak? Either make an appointment to meet with her, or write her a note, telling her yourself about your interest in being her room parent?”  
  
“Yeah, but I also want her to know that I’m capable.”  
  
Drolly, John remarked, “Oliver, you own a cafe. Plus, my teachers do not exist on islands. Second grade teachers do talk to first grade teachers, so I’m sure Miss Smoak has heard all about your room parent abilities from William’s first grade teacher.”  
  
“But what about her flavor likes and dislikes,” Oliver insisted, apparently not letting his interest go or reading between the lines to perceive Diggle’s actual point. “For the holidays, I send in gifts for William’s teachers. It’d be nice to make sure she actually enjoys what I bake for her.”  
  
Oliver’s persistence made Digg once more believe that there was something else behind the young father’s questions, yet he kept these suspicions to himself. Instead of asking why Felicity’s food preferences meant so much to Oliver, he teased, “that’s not exactly something I track in my employees’ personnel files.”  
  
While Oliver didn’t say it, John could see _‘well, it should be,’_ on the tip of the other man’s tongue. Rather than voice his childish protest, Oliver pressed, “you’ve never noticed what she prefers to eat for lunch?”  
  
“I don’t know. You tell me,” Digg challenged, nodding towards Oliver. “You’re the one who owns a cafe just down the street. Are you telling me that you’ve never taken note of her orders before?”  
  
“When I first opened the shop, Miss Smoak came in all the time, but, around the same time that William started kindergarten, she stopped. So, it’s been a couple of years.” Now _that_ Diggle found interesting. Felicity Smoak loved her coffee. Even if she didn’t dine in (or out) at the cafe, he would have thought she’d go there for her lattes, cappuccinos, frappes, or whatever her caffeinated drink of choice was. Not only was Oliver’s place convenient given its proximity to the school, but its bean quality could not be beat. Just like him, Felicity had her professional principles, but there was nothing wrong with paying for a cup of coffee at a cafe owned by a parent of one of their students. “I guess I’ll just have to ask William,” Oliver mused, bringing Diggle back to the moment and back to their conversation. “He’s an observant kid, and he’ll want her to like the treats I send in just as much as I do.”  
  
Given Oliver’s tenacity, Diggle doubted that, and he knew for sure that the motivating factors differed greatly for the two Queen boys. John wasn’t heartless, however, so he decided to throw the younger man a bone. “If you want to impress Miss Smoak, you’ll have better luck if you do that through your actual parenting and not through her stomach. Make sure that William is the very best student he can be. _That_ will make his _teacher_ happy.”  
  
“Of course,” Oliver readily agreed. “But William already does that on his own.”  
  
Feeling his early evening slipping through his fingers, Diggle stood up, prompting an end to their discussion. He had a feeling that, if he allowed him to, Oliver would stay all night discussing Felicity, food, and how he, Oliver, could best marry the two together. “So, then, you have nothing to worry about.”  
  
Taking the cue given to him, Oliver stood up, though he hesitated, asking, “but you’ll put a good word in for me with Miss Smoak… about being room parent?”  
  
“I make no promises,” Digg denied him. “I try not to meddle too much in my teachers’ affairs, especially when they’re perfectly capable of making their own decisions about such matters.” _And_ especially not when, by denying Felicity’s request for William to be placed in another second grade classroom, he owed the teacher in question.   
  
With a resigned nod, Oliver left, his gratitude for Diggle’s time silently expressed yet still readily conveyed. Before John could sigh in relief or even sit back down, he heard the quick, determined steps of someone fairly charging towards his office. Round two was about to commence. 

oo

  
By Felicity’s near immediate arrival after Oliver left his office, Diggle knew that she had been lying in wait for her turn to see and speak with him. To be honest, he was surprised that she hadn’t stormed in or called to interrupt, for, while she espoused patience to her students, it wasn’t necessarily one of her own virtues. And that willfulness was on full display when she marched towards his desk, his office door slamming behind her in her focus and drive, and got straight to her point. “Oliver Queen _will not_ be my room parent!”  
  
She didn’t say _should not_ or _cannot_ , and she didn’t offer any explanations or arguments for her decision. And a decision it most certainly was, because Felicity’s mind was made up. Even if Diggle didn’t owe her a favor, and even if he had agreed to fight Oliver’s (ridiculous) battle for him, it wouldn’t have mattered what John said, did, or thought, because there was no way to alter Felicity Smoak once she was set on her course. She’d graciously given in when he’d insisted that she was the better fit for William, academically, because, at the end of the day, Felicity was an excellent educator, and she would always put a child and what was best for him or her before her own wishes and desires. But room parent was a whole different matter.   
  
Granted, there were deeper issues behind Oliver’s drive to plan his son’s school parties and attend his class field trips - issues that spoke of Oliver’s journey to parenthood, his own relationship with his parents, and Oliver’s insecurities concerning his ability to raise his son, but it wasn’t Felicity’s responsibility to run her classroom around one parent’s issues. If she found out the reasons behind Oliver’s need to support William any way he could, Diggle had no doubt that Felicity would relent… which was why he suggested the younger man be open and honest with the teacher rather than trying to ply her good opinion and favor with breads and buns, brownies and bars. In their different ways, both parent and educator were too stubborn and too sympathetic for Digg’s own good!  
  
Yet, Felicity was too carried away in her emotions to recognize that he had failed to offer an objection on Oliver’s behalf, and she plowed forward, citing what she believed to be all of the justification she needed with just a single complaint. “It’s the first day of school, and already he sent in an _entire_ maple bacon cheesecake, Digg!” If his mouth started to water with just the utterance of those three words, he felt his salivation warranted. “ _Bacon_!”   
  
“Saying it twice just makes me that much more jealous… and hungry.”  
  
Tossing her arms up in the air, Felicity yelled in exasperation, “I’m Jewish, Digg!”  
  
He could understand wanting to be healthy - to eat right and exercise… even if Felicity’s idea of a workout was walking her class to and from gym once a week. In fact, despite having retired from the military many years prior, John was quite confident in his physical abilities, knowing that he could pass any fitness test put forth by any sadistic drill sergeant. But even he made exceptions, especially for bacon, so he could not understand the point Felicity was trying to make, her religion notwithstanding. “Your non-sequitur aside, okay?”  
  
“I’m not supposed to eat bacon.”  
  
“You eat bacon all the time.” While he hadn’t been lying when he told Oliver that he was unaware of his employees’ eating habits, even Diggle had noticed Felicity’s penchant for bacon, especially if it came on a Big Belly Buster.   
  
“That’s not the point.” And she emphasized her rebuke by wagging a censoring finger at him.   
  
Being married and having a daughter of his own, Digg should have known to just back down then and there, accept what Felicity was saying… even if he didn’t understand it, and just give her exactly what she wanted: a promise that Oliver Queen would not be her room parent and sympathy for her maple bacon cheesecake plight, but he was frankly confused beyond reason. “It’s not?”  
  
“No,” Felicity argued, hands on hips and glaring at him. “Because Oliver Queen doesn’t know that I eat bacon, and he should respect the fact that I’m not supposed to eat it by not tempting me with bacon baked goods.”  
  
“But, if he doesn’t know that you eat bacon, how is he supposed to know that you’re Jewish and not supposed to eat bacon?”   
  
“What?” Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who was confounded by their conversation… which didn’t bode well for a resolution or for Diggle making it home in time for dinner with his family.   
  
And then he had a truly horrific thought and demanded to know, “what did you do with that cheesecake, Felicity?!” Because, while he had no idea what her stance was on bacon now, Diggle was for damn sure positive of his own opinion on the salty, meaty, chewy or crispy (he wasn’t picky) goodness.   
  
“That doesn’t matter!”  
  
Earlier, he had returned to his office with tasks in mind, but they were long forgotten. Standing from his desk, John left everything where it was and started moving for the door, uncaring if Felicity followed him or not. What had been a great first day or school had somehow dissolved into craziness - amusing craziness but still craziness… of which he’d had enough. He was going home. Felicity did trail after him, however, so he insisted, “you better not have thrown that cheesecake away.”  
  
“Don’t worry about what I did with my cheesecake, Digg.”  
  
“Oh, so now it’s _your_ cheesecake,” Diggle observed, calling her out. “But I thought you didn’t want it.”  
  
“No, what I don’t want is Oliver Queen for a room parent.”  
  
“Fine. Oliver Queen is not your room parent,” he decreed.  
  
But that wasn’t enough of a guarantee for Felicity, so she pressed him for more. “I want your word, Digg, because two months ago William Queen wasn’t going to be in my class at all, and, yet, here we are, arguing over his father.”  
  
She wasn’t wrong. And Digg still found Felicity’s insistence that she have nothing to do with Oliver Queen… or his baked goods... quite suspicious. He’d never seen her so passionate about anything, not even her disregard for kangaroos, which told him that he was missing a big piece of this rather trying puzzle. Yet, as he had expressed to himself earlier during his conversation with Oliver, John owed Felicity - not only his agreement with her decision but also her privacy. If there was something more he needed to know about her parent-teacher relationship with Oliver, then she would tell him. Otherwise, whatever her reasons for wanting to keep her distance from the young father, they were exactly that: _her_ reasons.   
  
So, just as they approached the side door which would lead them both out to the employee parking lot, Diggle stopped, turned, and faced the young woman who was doggedly pursuing his steps. “Felicity, I promise that I will not interfere in _your_ decision when it comes to who is or who is not your room parent this year… or any year, for that matter.”  
  
With a simple nod and a quiet “thank you,” she accepted his pledge.  
  
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I would really like to go home.”  
  
Before he had even finished talking, Felicity was already walking away, tossing a, “say hi to Lyla and the kids for me,” over her shoulder. Given the direction in which she moved, Digg could tell that she was heading back to her classroom. Briefly, he considered advising her to go home and not to work too late, but, instead, he gratefully took the out given to him and escaped, leaving Felicity to her own devices. It was his way of paying her back for not sharing that cheesecake with him, though John still felt like he had drawn the short stick.


	3. Rosh Hashanah - Part Two

**Rosh Hashanah - Part Two**

If John Diggle was asked what he became aware of first - the sound of a heavy pan landing solidly upon his wooden desk or the taste of caramelized honey and apple juice splashing up to dampen his bottom lip, he’d be hard pressed to answer. What he didn’t have to think about was the meaning behind either interruption. Oliver Queen and his baking had struck once more. They hadn’t even been in school a month yet, and already Felicity was mad at him. Again.  
  
“Did you tell Oliver Queen that I’m Jewish?”  
  
Digg was about to answer instinctively, because he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t, but then he recalled his last _conversation_ with his favorite teacher about her not so favorite parent, and he started to wonder if he had been supposed to. So, cautiously, he ventured, “... no…?” The look he received in return was a strange combination of trust, suspicion, and appreciation. Almost fearing the response, he asked, “why?”  
  
“Because today’s Rosh Hashanah, and William brought me that.” Felicity nodded towards the baking dish on Diggle’s desk like it was hazardous waste, but the only thing about the aromatic dessert that was dangerous was what it would do to Digg’s blood sugar if he ate the entire pan… which he really wanted to do.   
  
The mention of William made John recall Oliver’s plan to put his seven year old’s acute observation skills to use in an attempt to make nice with his son’s teacher. “You must have mentioned something in class, and William told his father about your heritage.”  
  
“That’s plausible,” Felicity reluctantly agreed. “But what kind of man pumps his kid for information?” The desperate kind, though Diggle kept that reflection to himself. “I’ll tell you what kind,” she continued, gaining steam and leaning down over his desk so as to look him directly in the eye. “The kind who is used to getting everything he wants. But not this time! Oh, no! Oliver Queen _will not_ buy me off with honey baked brie blooming apples.” If that’s what was sitting oh so temptingly in front of Diggle, Oliver Queen could buy him off any time he wanted. “There is absolutely nothing he can do to tempt me into making him my room parent.”  
  
Right. That again.  
  
That was exactly what Oliver was trying to do… amongst other things, Diggle suspected, but he kept both this confirmation and his hunches to himself. “Maybe he’s just trying to be nice?” Nodding towards the food before him, he asked, “does this dish have any sort of significance for you?”  
  
“It’s traditional,” she revealed, standing up straight once more and suddenly avoiding his gaze. “The apples signify healing and the honey hope that the new year will be sweet.” For a moment, Felicity’s voice softened, sounding almost… moved by Oliver’s gesture, but, just as quickly as she had melted, she steeled herself back up, bitingly snarking, “apparently, Oliver Queen knows how to use Wikipedia. Bully for him.”  
  
John shrugged. “So, he looked up something about your heritage. It could be worse. He could take no interest in his son’s life. Or his food could suck. I’ve already agreed with you that he wouldn’t be your room parent, so just enjoy the fruits of his labor. You can eat your honey apples, send him a thank you note, and then move on, no harm done.”  
  
“No harm done,” she repeated, voice rising. “No harm done,” Felicity questioned again, thrusting her hands out towards him, palms facing downwards. Several of her fingers were pink, almost red… and not in a healthy with vitality sort of way. “That pan was in some kind of traveling warmer thing… like pizza delivery people use. When I opened it and then the lid to the dish to see what was inside, the steam scalded my fingers, Digg. His food should come with a warning label: looking may cause third degree burns.”  
  
Not intimidated by her exaggeration or her bluster, Diggle blandly remarked, “those are first degree burns, Felicity.”  
  
“They still make it uncomfortable to hold a pencil, and, seeing as how I’m a second grade teacher, you should consider yourself lucky that, unlike some of my peers, I’ve embraced technology in the classroom.”  
  
“So, email him,” Digg suggested, knowing already that his idea would be shut down and summarily dismissed for one reason or another. “Kindly yet explicitly ask Mr. Queen to stop sending you food.”  
  
“I will do no such thing!”  
  
“And why not,” he wanted to know.  
  
“Because this was obviously payback. Oliver’s bitter about not getting to be room parent, so he’s… he’s…”  
  
When she started to struggle with her juvenile justification, Digg interrupted, “so he’s getting his revenge through baked fruit and cheese?” Without looking, he reached into his middle, miscellany drawer, blindly rooting around inside for the utensils he kept stored there. Brandishing a fork, John dove right into the dish of deliciousness sitting before him, laughing the entire time he was chewing and then swallowing his first bite. “That might just be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I think you’ve been spending too much time with second graders, Felicity, because your arguments are starting to sound like a seven year old’s.”  
  
“Just… tell your buddy, Oliver, that nothing he bakes is going to change my mind about who is and who is not my room parent.”  
  
Shoveling another bite of food into his mouth, Diggle spoke while he chewed. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll pass along the message.” If his promise came across as less than sincere, it wasn’t his fault; it was the brie’s. He’d always been a sucker for good cheese, and Oliver Queen cooked with nothing but the best ingredients. And if he didn’t even spare Felicity a passing glance as she stomped out of his office, tossing her arms up in frustration, Digg would blame the perfectly blended spices which paired beautifully with the honey. It was shaping up to be one hell of a long school year, but at least there would be plenty of snacks. 

oo

  
After Felicity stormed away, frustrated and annoyed with him, the rest of John’s day had followed suit. The students had seemed just that much crankier than normal, and the small, run of the mill disputes between his teachers struck him as petty. There had been no time for Digg to decompress… let alone use the restroom, so, as soon as the last bus pulled away from the school, he slipped off, unseen even by his eagle eye of a secretary. The bladder relief had been necessary, especially after picking at Felicity’s pan of blooming apples all day, for the sweet treat had left him quite thirsty, but that now meant that he was late for his own meeting.  
  
Deciding not to even attempt an apology, for an apology might lead to an explanation, and Diggle would rather come across as rude than discuss his bathroom habits with another man, he, instead, greeted his visitor with a hearty and genuine, “thanks for coming in this afternoon. I know it was last minute, but I appreciate you making the time to….”  
  
“What is it? What’s wrong?” The other man moved so quickly, rocketing out of his chair and to his feet, that he and his anxiety momentarily made Digg freeze. He had not been expecting that kind of reaction. Surely, he realized that…?  
  
But of course he didn’t, because Diggle hadn’t made the appointment himself; he’d asked his secretary to call and schedule the impromptu meeting. Gerry hadn’t asked what it was about, and John had never thought to tell. And parents always jumped to the worst conclusions. He himself was guilty of that. It was like some kind of parental defense mechanism - your constant fear for your child combining with your limitless love for them to produce paranoia and dread… as, if you prepared for the worst, then you’d be soothed (somewhat) by the less bad reality. So, wanting to put Oliver at ease, Digg was quick to alleviate the father’s assumptions. “Nothing’s wrong. William is fine. No, he’s better than fine; he’s amazing.”  
  
Slowly, Oliver relaxed, his tension leaving his body in continual waves as he once more melted back into his chair. “So, he’s not hurt, and he’s not in trouble?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure William doesn’t know how to get into trouble. I’m guessing he gets that from his mother,” John teased.   
  
But the mention of William’s mom just made Oliver go taut and rigid once more. “Did you call Samantha in, too? Should we wait for her?”  
  
“Given that you’re about to jump out of your own skin, I don’t think you’d make it five minutes if you had to wait to find out why I asked you to meet with me today, man, so, luckily, you won’t have to. We’re not here this afternoon to talk about William… well, besides the fact that I should have taken you more seriously when you said you were going to sic your seven year old on his teacher; we’re here to talk about you, and Miss Smoak, and baked goods. Again.” Spinning around in his desk chair, Diggle retrieved the rinsed out baking dish (his continual picking had led to consuming the whole, entire dessert… as he had feared), muttering under his breath, “I cannot believe that sentence just left my mouth,” but he had resumed his pleasant, patient mask once more by the time he turned back to Oliver, pan in hand.   
  
Although the younger man took the clean cookery from him, he asked, brow furrowed in puzzlement… with just a pinch of consternation, too, “why are _you_ giving this back to me?”  
  
“I’m sure Felicity… I mean, Miss Smoak sent home your insulated carrying container with William, but I wanted to return the dish to you in person. It’s breakable, and I didn’t want William taking it on the bus with him.” Diggle knew that, when Oliver had his son, he drove him to and from school, but William rode the bus when staying with his mom, and she had primary custody. “Plus, this will give us a chance to talk, and, Oliver, we need to have another talk.”  
  
“Okay...,?” Oliver spoke slowly, John’s explanation obviously not sufficing. “But why do _you_ have it at all?”  
  
He decided to just cut to the chase. “Because, when Miss Smoak opened the lid to see what was inside, it was still so hot that the steam released scalded several of her fingers. In her aggravation, she brought the pan to me, reiterating that, no matter what you do, you will not be room parent and requesting that you not send food in for her.”  
  
Oliver paled, looking chagrined and crushed. “I… injured her?”  
  
“She’ll be fine,” John dismissed with a wave of his hand. Really, of everything going on between Oliver and Felicity, as the mediary between them, the burn was the least of his concerns.   
  
“That’s not the point,” the younger man snapped, glaring and standing up. He started in the direction of Diggle’s door, saying, “I should find her, apologize. I never meant…,” only for Digg to interrupt him.  
  
“Sit down, Oliver,” Diggle ordered, using his best ‘I mean business; you’re in serious trouble here, Mister’ principal voice. It worked. Oliver sank right back into his chair. Although he softened his tone by several degrees, it still remained authoritative and strident. “You’re right. The severity of Miss Smoak’s burn isn’t the point, because, if you had listened to me and not sent food in for her, she wouldn’t have been burned at all. _That’s_ the point.”  
  
“You mentioned me being room parent.” For a moment, Digg wanted to slam his head against his desk, because _seriously?!_ They were back on this again? But then, for the first time since that summer, Oliver spoke sense. “But the food… I wasn’t trying to bribe her.”  
  
“Then what were you trying to do?”  
  
Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Oliver dropped his face into his hands, rubbing at his brow as if exhausted. He sighed, composed himself, and then admitted softly, “it’s the only thing I do well.”  
  
John snorted. “What, making Miss Smoak mad?”  
  
“No, baking. Cooking. Food.”  
  
As an elementary school principal, it was Diggle’s job to build up his students, both through encouragement and reprimands depending upon the situation. He became a school administrator, because he liked kids, and they were far easier to deal with than adults. In the military, he’d had his fill of bandaid psychology, helping his fellow soldiers find temporary relief from the demons that haunted them on and off the battlefield. The problems of children, while no less important, were far less complicated… usually.   
  
It didn’t matter how much he enjoyed those baked apples, Digg was not equipped to handle Oliver Queen and his issues. Yet, here he was, apparently the sounding board and confidant of the young father. He didn’t know Oliver well, but, with every holiday and every failed attempt to… convince Felicity of something about him, Diggle was starting to get a better idea of who the cafe owner was. While he certainly wouldn’t fluff his ego, there was one aspect of Oliver’s personality he was comfortable praising. “You’re also a good father.”  
  
Chuckling humorlessly, Oliver denied, “I don’t know about that. I didn’t exactly have the best example growing up.”  
  
Ah, yes, the famous _and_ infamous Robert Queen. For the first two decades of Oliver’s life, Robert and Moira Queen had presented a picture perfect image of their marriage, their family, and their corporation to the entire world. Beautiful and billionaires, it seemed like they had it all. But, when Oliver knocked up a girl who wasn’t his long term girlfriend, not only did he disturb the finely choreographed future his parents had mapped out for him, but he also rocked the entire Queen family boat. Or, in Robert’s case, yacht.   
  
Moira Queen tried to get rid of the baby’s mother and, in turn, the baby… not literally but financially, paying Samantha Clayton to tell Oliver she had lost the child. Rather than take the money and run, Samantha had exposed the Queen matriarch’s machinations. That single scandal was like a domino, knocking down glass wall after glass wall. In turn, affairs on both Robert and Moira’s parts were revealed, Thea Queen was outed as Thea Merlyn, and Robert ended up sailing away with a former intern. When the dust settled, the Queen family still had most of their money, but it proved to be just as dirty as their real and suddenly revealed reputations.   
  
While Diggle knew all of this thanks to being a Starling City native - news of the Queen family’s fall from grace had been unavoidable, what he wasn’t sure about was how Oliver had gone from a cliche statistic to a responsible, successful small business owner and dad. From his bitter remarks, however, he could tell that all was still not well between Oliver and his own father. Perhaps that was part of the reason why Oliver seemed incapable of recognizing his own admirable qualities and still saw himself as the boy whose affair not only created a baby but also brought forth the entire destruction of his family.   
  
“Some examples teach us what to do; others show us what to avoid.”  
  
“Well, I’m not sure if I believe you, but I appreciate you saying that… about me being a good dad.” Rubbing the side of his face in a bashful manner, Oliver quietly offered Diggle a sincere, “thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” Before Oliver could clam back up, John pressed, “but that still doesn’t tell me why baking for Miss Smoak is so important to you. Even if it was true - that cooking is the only thing you do well, which it’s not,” he reiterated pointedly, quirking a solitary brow in emphasis and to discourage objection. “Why does it matter to you so much that Miss Smoak be aware of and appreciate your kitchen skills?”  
  
“She obviously hates me.”  
  
“Hate is a very strong word, especially for the situation and, more importantly, especially for Felicity.” Despite the unprofessional nature of referring to his employee by her first name, if Diggle was going to be forced to talk about Felicity so much, he damn sure wasn’t going to always refer to her as _Miss Smoak_. Plus, whatever was going on with Oliver felt more personal than professional, so he was going to follow suit. “That woman doesn’t have a bone in her body capable of hate.”  
  
“Well, then, she strongly dislikes me.”  
  
“I can tell you that she strongly dislikes being ignored, that she strongly dislikes when people do not listen to and _hear_ her.”  
  
Oliver folded his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. John wasn’t sure if the body language said petulantance or pretentiousness. “Well, that would require actually talking to me.”  
  
“Pot meet kettle,” he returned snidely. “I told you to talk to her about being room parent, not fatten her up for the slaughter.”  
  
“It has been my experience that I’m better with gestures than words,” Oliver argued.  
  
“Is that why you’re single, and my favorite employee is walking around with first degree burns on her hands?”  
  
Ignoring the snark, Oliver explained, “I just thought… if I could _show_ Miss Smoak that there is something good about me, then maybe she wouldn’t dislike me so much - not because I still want to be her room parent...”  
  
“Well, that’s good, because that’s never going to happen,” Diggle cut in.  
  
“... but for William’s sake.”  
  
Sitting forward in his chair with a snap, John asked, “has William expressed concern over his teacher’s opinion of you? Has this… whatever it is the two of you are engaging in with me squarely in the middle like a damn fool… negatively impacted William’s learning experience?”  
  
“No, of course not.”  
  
“Good,” Digg pronounced, standing up with alacrity. “Then it shouldn’t matter what Felicity does or does not think about you… or your cooking skills.”  
  
Oliver stood as well but much slower and more reluctantly. “Right?”  
  
Holding out his hand for the younger man in both agreement and salutation, Diggle asked, “so, we’re in agreement then?”  
  
With a brisk shake, Oliver offered, “yes, of course. No more food that could burn Miss Smoak.”  
  
Before John could reprimand or correct him, Oliver was already skipping off towards the exit, empty dish in hand, but that didn’t stop him from yelling after him, “that’s not what I meant, and you know it!”  
  
“If I gave up now and so easily, what kind of example would I be setting for my son?”  
  
Collapsing down tiredly into the warm, leather embrace of his desk chair, Diggle mumbled, “a smart and self-preserving one,” but there was no one there to hear him.   
  
There was absolutely no way that this entire mess was about making sure that William’s teacher liked William’s father for William’s sake. And it wasn’t just about Oliver’s self-image issues either. To Diggle, it seemed more like William’s father wanted William’s teacher to like said father for the father, and not the son’s, sake. While he recalled Oliver mentioning that Felicity had once been a customer, Oliver’s determination seemed deeper than just wanting to reclaim a former patron, and he now knew that, while important to him, Oliver’s insistence was definitely not just about wanting to be the class’ room parent. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that Oliver was pursuing Felicity romantically, but Oliver Queen, reformed or not, had better game than honey apples and cheesecake.   
  
_Didn’t he?!_


	4. Yom Kippur - Part Three

**Yom Kippur - Part Three**

Hands down, the absolute worst part of John Diggle’s job was school board meetings. Despite the obvious statistical and anecdotal success of his school, he hated having to defend himself, his teachers, and his students once a month to a panel of community members, most of whom had little to no educational or administrative experience of their own. While he could appreciate the checks and balances such a group was meant to implement and recognized their necessity, in reality, the board was more interested in financial oversight than the actual curriculum or policy-making.   
  
No matter his feelings for the monthly event, Digg did his best in all aspects of his job. So, he was going over his notes for that night’s meeting, checking his visuals and handouts just one last time, when there was a soft knock on his office door. Glancing up, he was met with the sight of a giant basket. A quick sniff of the air told him food, probably bread, so that explained why his secretary had let the guest pass by without insisting upon an introduction.  
  
Sighing in resignation, Diggle asked, “what did you make for and bring Felicity today, Oliver?”  
  
“Bagels,” the younger man announced. And, sure enough, once he placed the basket down on one of the chairs situated before John’s desk, taking the other one for himself, Digg saw the homemade treats for himself. “There’s sun dried tomato, caramel crunch, asiago, and blueberry.”  
  
“There are at least two dozen bagels in that basket. Have you ever met Felicity,” Diggle asked rhetorically. “The girl can eat, but she can’t eat that much.”  
  
“Miss Smoak can do whatever she wants with the bagels. Eat them. Share them. Let them become stale and then use them as frisbies or coasters. I don’t care. It’s not about the food itself,” Oliver explained, though, at the idea of wasting bagels, Diggle was starting to wonder if the cafe owner did more than bake with yeast; perhaps he was snorting it, too. “It’s about the gesture.”  
  
“If you keep this up, Miss Smoak will show you a gesture.”  
  
Ignoring him, Oliver continued, “I wanted them to be fresh, and I didn’t think it would be very respectful to send them this morning with William when it’d still be hours before she could eat them… or anything else, for that matter.”  
  
Oliver Queen wasn’t the only one who knew how to Google. After learning that his favorite employee was Jewish, Diggle had done his own research, so he had found out that, after Rosh Hashanah came Yom Kippur which, along with other traditions, was marked by fasting. While not a very religious man himself, he was all for others observing their beliefs in whatever way they saw fit. But he was also responsible for the wellbeing of all of his students, and there was no way anyone at Starling Prep Elementary would survive a fasting Felicity Smoak.   
  
She got hangry… very, very easily.  
  
Thankfully, Felicity was also self-aware enough to know that she was far from at her best when on an empty stomach, so she had assured a clumsy and awkward Diggle when he broached the subject that, unless Yom Kippur fell on the weekend, she didn’t fast.   
  
It didn’t take Wikipedia for Digg to know that carbs were a gentle way to break a fast, and, given his apples and honey gesture ten days earlier, John figured Oliver had baked for Felicity a traditional Yom Kippur treat, but there was no way Felicity was going to appreciate the bagels, especially not like John himself would. In fact, they’d make for an excellent refreshment at his board meeting that evening… if only Diggle could convince the younger man of the folly of his token… something – some as of yet still unidentified and unspoken emotional motivation.   
  
But Digg kept all of this to himself, because the last thing he needed was Oliver Queen getting wind of Felicity Smoak’s _hanger_ problems, because then the fool man would be sending in food for her every day, and those _hanger_ problems would become actual anger problems. As a principal, he discouraged food fights, so he didn’t need one of his teachers winging muffins at his head because he was incapable of keeping his mouth shut.   
  
So, instead of all that, he simply teased, “so, what you’re saying is that _you_ didn’t want to _tempt her_?”  
  
Oliver’s complexion turned slightly ruddy, and he fidgeted in his chair, but, otherwise, he didn’t rise to the bait. “When the time is right, will you please just make sure that these get to Miss Smoak?”  
  
“I’ll let her know they’re here. Whether or not she takes them will be up to her. I make no promises.”  
  
Standing, Oliver spread his hands out in entreaty. “That’s all I ask.”  
  
Before the younger man could walk away, Digg told him, “you know, it’ll probably be William who she sends up here to pick up the basket. He’s become her star pupil, her right-hand man. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that, would you?”  
  
“As I’ve told you before, Digg, I was a horrible student. I can take no credit when it comes to William’s academic achievements.”  
  
“And his manners, his attentiveness?”  
  
Pausing by the door, Oliver praised, “Samantha is a good mom.”  
  
“Well, no matter how his behavior has come about, I think it’s proof that, despite what Miss Smoak may or may not feel for you, she likes William, and he likes her, so why the baking persistence?”  
  
“I told you,” Oliver stubbornly clung to his former rationale. “It’s for William.”  
  
“But I already told you that, regardless of your actions, William’s already Felicity’s favorite, unspoken of course. He doesn’t need you to curry favor with his teacher,” Diggle tried to persuade.  
  
And he failed. “I don’t want someone who William admires so much to dislike me. For the sake of my relationship with my son, I want him to see me as a good guy through not just his own eyes but through his hero’s eyes as well, and, right now, William idolizes Miss Smoak.”  
  
“Hmph,” John complained, side-eying the young father before him. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’ve also been meeting with my guidance counselor about this whole mess.”  
  
With a grin, a rap on the door with his knuckles, and a final nod towards the awaiting basket of bagels, Oliver denied, “nope, you’re my one and only yoda, Diggle. Thanks again.”  
  
“Thanks again, indeed,” he grumbled, already reaching for his phone to call out to his secretary and ask him to page Felicity over the intercom with notice of her _delivery_. If he didn’t suspect that William was aware of his father’s impending bagel gesture and knew exactly how many bagels Miss Smoak was to receive, he’d first grab a few for himself. After all, he still didn’t know what had happened to that maple bacon cheesecake, and it would be a shame if anything unseemly was inflicted upon such innocent bread. 

oo

  
If the power grid failed, and all of the world’s electronics quit working, Diggle was pretty sure he could set a watch by Felicity Smoak’s wrath. Sure enough, ten minutes after the last bell rang, allowing for packing up and pick-ups, the very second grade teacher who was so dependable came marching into his office, her color high and her mood low. She offered him no greeting, nor even a kind glance, but, instead, immediately launched into her verbal assault, the words obviously at the tip of her tongue and ready to be fired. “Am I really that much of a cliché?”  
  
That was not the approach John had been anticipating, and he wasn’t exactly sure what Felicity was alluding to, but he decided right away to use the opportunity presented to him. “I don’t know. You tell me,” he instructed the spirited, young teacher. “I recently realized when I learned that you were Jewish that, despite having you to my home for dinner and the fact that you babysit my children, I know absolutely nothing about you, Felicity.”  
  
Obviously caught off guard, she blinked owlishly at him from behind her two tone rimmed glasses before openly offering, “what do you want to know?”  
  
“Let’s start with your parents. You _do_ have parents, don’t you?”  
  
“I wasn’t hatched as the result of some top-secret government experiment, and, while I may be from Nevada, I hail from Las Vegas, not Area 51, so, yes, I have parents,” Felicity revealed. Then, with a huff and a bone melting collapse into a chair in front of his desk, she lost all of her sass. “Well, I have a mom, and I have a sperm donor.”  
  
With a smirk, Digg teased, “so the whole petri dish allusion wasn’t too far off the mark.”  
  
“He’s not a literal sperm donor. My dad just abandoned us when I was a kid.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that, Felicity,” John said sincerely, “both for you and your mother but also for your father as well, because he missed out on an incredible daughter.”  
  
“Thanks, but I’m not holding on to any youthful angst or daddy issues because of him, so you didn’t need to say that.” Shrugging, Felicity expanded upon her feelings, “lots of kids come from broken homes. It wasn’t easy, but my mom and I made it work. We’re not exactly close, but she’s my mom, and she’s all the family I have.”  
  
“The Jewish culture is passed down from the mother, right?”  
  
“Yep,” Felicity answered, popping her ‘p.’ “We’re not the most observant by any means, but our faith is still important to us.” Diggle wasn’t sure what part of that reminded Felicity of her anger, but, before he could mentally prepare himself… or his ears, the fire was back and so, too, was her legendary loud voice. “That’s why I do not appreciate Oliver Queen making a mockery of my heritage!”  
  
Perhaps it was the wrong approach, but Digg always felt honesty was the best policy. Just ask his students. So, sincerely he told her, “I really don’t think he would do that, Felicity.”  
  
“Of course you would take his side,” the young woman glared at him. If Digg shrank back slightly in his chair, he felt the cowardly display was justified. Felicity Smoak, though usually so bright and cheerful and always petite, could be quite scary when in a temper. “You’re friends, right?”  
  
“You’re my friend, too,” he assured her.  
  
But Felicity was in no mood to be mollified. “Just because I’m Jewish does not mean that I eat bagels.” But, apparently, she was in the mood for tangential thoughts.  
  
Shocked, he asked, “you don’t like bagels?”  
  
“Of course I like bagels,” Felicity exclaimed, tossing her hands up in vexation. “Everybody likes bagels.” He couldn’t argue with her there. “But Oliver Queen doesn’t know that I like them, and the only reason he made me bagels is because he found out that I’m Jewish.”  
  
Maybe Felicity had ignored his request and her own sound judgement that she forego fasting, because, otherwise, it just seemed like she was angry at Oliver for her anger’s sake. Ineptly, he tried to explain the cafe owner’s motivations… or, at least, his scientifically leaning motivations. “He made you bagels, because it’s Yom Kippur, and he knows that carbohydrates are easy for the stomach to digest after a period of fasting.”  
  
“Oh, so the two of you discussed this? You helped him plan this latest attack,” Felicity queried petulantly.   
  
Assault by baked goods? What a way to go!  
  
“Well, if that’s the case,” she continued without giving Diggle a chance to respond. “You can just tell Oliver Queen for me that, from now on, I’m going gluten free.” Standing up from her chair, she stalked right out of his office. “We’ll see how he likes that!”  
  
In vain, Diggle yelled after her, “what about the bagels,” but, just as he predicted to himself, he didn’t receive an answer.   
  
Slumping back into his chair, he cast an eye towards his board meeting prep but immediately turned away from it. While an unpleasant task, he was ready for whatever the school board wanted to ask of him. He didn’t need to review his information again. Instead, he would use his time before the meeting to contemplate Felicity’s actions and attitude, because, just as Oliver’s behavior had nothing to do with convincing Felicity that he should be her room parent or that she should like him for William’s sake, Felicity’s behavior was somehow motivated by the personal as well. By proclaiming herself off gluten, the Las Vegas native had tipped her hand. Felicity Smoak loved bread and carbs _way_ too much to ever give them up.  
  
But why the childish tantrum, the desperate response to Oliver’s gifted baked goods?   
  
There must be something else behind her animosity.  
  
Just as Diggle believed Oliver’s actions to be informed by the young father’s former interactions with the even younger teacher, maybe Felicity, too, was allowing something that happened… or didn’t happen… between them when she once frequented Oliver’s cafe to influence her behavior. Had one of them hit on the other, and the overture hadn’t been appreciated let alone reciprocated? Despite his past dalliances, Oliver obviously wasn’t the smoothest guy in the world. If he could make Felicity mad by cooking for her, imagine what he’d be capable of if he tried to actually talk to her? Yes, Diggle had given them both flack for their unwillingness to communicate with actual words, but maybe he had been wrong to encourage conversation between them.   
  
There was another aspect of Oliver and Felicity’s dynamic that John needed to consider. In the three years that he had known Felicity, Digg was unaware of her ever dating anyone, seriously or otherwise. While he didn’t think Felicity was the type to brashly announce her dating status, he considered himself a fairly observant guy, and there were obvious tells to look for: flower deliveries, leaving work early, and framed photos of the happy couple on one’s desk. Hell, he and Lyla had met and fallen in love in a war zone, and even they had pictures together from when they were dating. The closest Felicity had ever gotten to anything even resembling a significant other was Oliver. And that said a lot… about both of them.   
  
But how was he supposed to get Felicity to open up to him about whatever it was she had against Oliver Queen if it had taken him years to learn that, yes, she had parents and that she was from Las Vegas? Plus, she obviously believed his allegiance rested with Oliver, so her walls were up. Even at his most emotionally savvy, Diggle was more of a direct strike kind of guy. He drove tanks through walls; he didn’t scale them.   
  
Lyla on the other hand….  
  
If anyone in the Diggle family knew how to operate with finesse, it was his wife. While she liked Felicity, and Digg had no doubt that she would want to help their mutual friend, he wasn’t sure if involving Lyla was the best idea. Yes, she might be able to get him some answers, but, if Felicity caught wind that Lyla was on a mission for her husband, she might shut the other woman out, too. John certainly didn’t want to come between his favorite employee and his wife… even if, in doing so, he had the best of intentions.   
  
No, for the time being, he wouldn’t say anything to Lyla, preserving her as a shoulder to lean on for Felicity if the younger woman saw fit to seek Digg’s wife out herself, and he would let things progress between Oliver and Felicity without interference, his patience being the only thing at risk. It was obvious that neither adult was willing to allow William to be hurt by their shenanigans, so, as a principal, Diggle was doing his job. As a friend, though…? Well, his responsibilities as Oliver _and_ Felicity’s friend were a little less clearly defined, but he’d carry on like the soldier at heart that he was… even if his friends took the motto ‘all is fair in love and war’ a smidgen too seriously in his opinion.  
  
He just wished he knew which type of battle they were waging.


	5. Parent-Teacher Conferences - Part Four

**Parent-Teacher Conferences: Part Four**

His mother always said that a home never looked more beautiful, more welcoming, than when there was a pristine dusting of snow on the lawn and eaves. Now, it didn’t snow often in Starling City, so perhaps that influenced her opinion, the rarity of the weather making it that much more appreciated. An elementary school, on the other hand, looked its best once a year on parent-teacher conferences night, the annual event always making Diggle think of his dearly departed mom.   
  
Every empty, hallway wall was turned into a bright if not museum-quality display for the students’ art, and all of the classrooms were neat and tidy. Teachers hung up their pupils’ best work, sharing with the touring parents everything their children had achieved so far that year. There was coffee and punch in the cafeteria, and snacks to be had at random stations throughout the building. Even the windows were festooned. Every pane featured a red, or yellow, or orange leaf, signifying the fall season, courtesy of a volunteer who painstakingly traced, cut, and hung the paper decorations for every season and major holiday.   
  
And John himself, well, he had a favorite, parent-teacher conferences suit. There was nothing particularly special about it, but it seemed to be cut just right, and it was the perfect weight for an October evening - warm enough to keep out the night’s chill yet not too warm in the crush of bodies all clamoring to speak with little Annie’s or darling Jack’s principal. His shoes were shined, his face freshly shaved, and he had on the tie his kids had given to him on the most recent Father’s Day. Nothing, not even the school board’s presence in the building that evening, was going to ruin parent-teacher conferences that year for John Diggle.  
  
“Digg, I think I’m going to be sick.”  
  
As he was standing in front of the wall mirror in his office, giving his appearance one last going over before stepping out into the breach, Diggle used the reflective surface to see the face who possessed the voice he knew so well. Smirking at his visitor, he teased, “what, did Oliver give you food poisoning this time?”  
  
“Ugh,” Felicity groaned, paling even further. It was then that Digg really took a look at the younger woman, realizing that, true to her pronouncement, she didn’t appear to be in the peak of health. “Don’t say the f word.”  
  
Turning around, his Windsor knot forgotten, John ushered his favorite employee towards a chair. “Here, sit down. Can I get you anything? I’m pretty sure the school nurse keeps cans of ginger ale in her mini fridge.”  
  
“She does,” Felicity answered, though, if she had been white as a modern sheet before, at the mention of something to drink, she turned a shade of green very reminiscent of 1970’s hospital bedding. “But bubbles are bad. Very, very bad.”  
  
For a moment, he considered offering her just some water, but, with every mention of food or drink, Felicity just seemed to get worse, so he skipped ahead and asked, “what about a trash can?”  
  
Although Felicity answered, “that’s probably a good idea,” he was already moving. Luckily, Starling Prep, contrary to most elementary schools, was a tile floor only building, no carpet in sight, but John still didn’t relish the idea of his office floor being bathed in sick. If Felicity was well and truly ill, the germs were bad enough.  
  
However, and he felt like a real tool for even questioning her sincerity, he had to ask, “are you sure this isn’t just nerves?”  
  
With a rumpled brow, she questioned, “nerves?”  
  
“Because, despite your best efforts to avoid him, you’re finally going to have to see and talk with Oliver Queen tonight.”  
  
Although she looked away from him, Felicity didn’t blush. “I’m not the 23 year old who cried vomit, John. This is real.” Before he could respond, she snapped, “and I resent you implying that I would ever allow that man… or any man, for that matter… to compromise my professional integrity.”  
  
“You’re right. I apologize.”  
  
“Don’t patronize me,” Felicity snapped.  
  
“I’m not patronizing you. If anything, you might be _too_ professional sometimes,” Digg responded gently, a friendly and sympathetic smile on his face.   
  
Sounding just as confused as she looked, the young teacher asked, “what’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Nevermind.” Although Felicity went to protest, Diggle cut her off. “Now, I’m going in the complete opposite direction, and I’m going to ask you something totally unprofessional,” he warned her. “Maybe this is just… your friend?”  
  
Whereas Diggle had been kneeling beside her, holding the empty trash can in front of Felicity while she leaned forward slightly over her knees, at his latest attempt to explain away her illness in order to guarantee that she wouldn’t throw a monkey wrench in his carefully constructed parent-teacher conferences plans, as soon as the words left his mouth, Felicity flinched back as if physically shocked, holding herself as far away from him as she could and glaring. “My friend?”  
  
“That’s what my mom always called… it,” he revealed. If his face looked as hot as it felt, he would be lucky if his embarrassment didn’t set off the sprinklers. “When we were kids, and she would… have company?”  
  
“Digg, I know you’re referring to a woman’s period… and for a husband and a father, I find it disturbing that you cannot bring yourself to say it, but do you realize that your euphemism just made it sound like your mother slept around with her kids in the next room?”  
  
Just when he thought his mortification couldn’t get any worse…. Deciding to just skip over everything that Felicity had said, John struggled and stuttered through his next statement. “When Lyla’s… unwell, I know one of her symptoms can sometimes be nausea. So, I was just hoping that ...”  
  
“... that my ghostly complexion and poltergeist-y stomach could be cured with a couple of Midol and a heating pad in time for when the first parent is scheduled to arrive.”  
  
Sheepishly, Diggle shrugged. “Yeah?”  
  
“Sorry for your luck, Chuck, but my PMS symptoms are limited to migraines and moodiness, and, if this was my period, we’d have bigger problems, because let’s just say that my cycle would be set to extra spin… if you know what I’m saying.”  
  
Unfortunately, he did. Sighing, Diggle asked, “do you need to go home?”   
  
“I’m going to try to soldier through.” As Felicity talked, Diggle stood up, handing her the garbage can while he moved around his desk so as to check the time. “None of my students have been sick, so I don’t think it’s viral, so I shouldn’t be a walking-talking patient zero. I know you were teasing earlier when you mentioned food poisoning, but it seems to be the most logical explanation. I ate some leftover, questionably dated takeout for lunch today. But I wanted you to be aware of what was going on just in case there were reports of a teacher giving her best Linda Blair impersonation later.”  
  
“Good to know.” Reconsidering her warning and his response, Digg added, “I guess.”  
  
Standing, Felicity told him, “in the meantime, just to play it safe, I’m going to hang a couple of signs, asking parents not to bring any food or drink into my classroom.”  
  
While he didn’t think it the real cause behind her rebellious stomach, the sudden aversion to all things edible _did_ sound familiar. Teasingly (and daringly, if he did say so himself), John suggested, “you’re not pregnant, are you?”  
  
“Bite your… oh god!” Before Felicity could finish her reprimand, she was doubled over the trash can she was thankfully still holding, retching until the point that Digg’s abdominals hurt in sympathy.   
  
After rifling through his desk, he located several napkins and discretely held them out to the young woman once she was finished being sick. When she went to take them, Felicity tried to pass the garbage can back to him, but Digg declined, holding up his hands in rejection. “Keep it,” he ordered her. “It’s yours. For forever. I don’t _ever_ want it back.” It did not matter how long he worked in education, or with children, or was a father. There were just some things a man could not become immune to, and, for John Diggle, that one thing was puke.   
  
“And, please, go home.” As Felicity turned her back on him so she could clean herself up in relative privacy, Diggle continued, “I don’t care what it is that’s making you sick: the flu, food poisoning, or even the thought of whatever gluten free baked good Oliver Queen is bound to bring with him tonight; I can’t handle it. If you throw up again, I might throw up, and this is my favorite suit. There will be no throwing up while wearing my favorite suit, do you hear me?! So, you’ll go home, and I’ll meet with your students’ parents. It’s not how I saw this night going, but it’s better than our parent-teacher conferences turning into a _Pitch Perfect_ reenactment scene.”  
  
Of course, the first thing out of Felicity Smoak’s mouth once she had composed herself enough to talk was, “you’ve seen _Pitch Perfect_ , Digg?”  
  
“As you like to remind me, I _do_ have a wife and a daughter, so, yes, I have seen _Pitch Perfect_ , thank you very much.”  
  
“No, thank you, Principal Diggle,” Felicity returned, though her voice was devoid of any mocking. “Please tell my students and their parents that I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight, but maybe let’s keep the details,” with this, she nodded towards the metal bin she was still carrying, “just between us.”  
  
“I’d have preferred it to have just stayed with you,” John complained good naturedly. With a tired wave, the young teacher left his office, and he offered her a parting, “feel better soon, Felicity.”

oo

  
“You’re not Miss Smoak.”  
  
“I’m not Miss Anything… well, besides misunderstood,” Diggle joked, though his audience seemed neither appreciative nor interested in his comedy routine. Instead, Oliver put on his own humorous show as he tried to maneuver himself into a desk built for a second grader.   
  
By design, their student-teacher conferences night was more an open house versus a formal, sit-down, let’s solve all the problems in education powwow. That’s why nearly every flat, available surface was turned into some kind of display. Parents were encouraged to walk around and see for themselves what their children were learning and accomplishing in school every day, their meet-and-greet with the teacher short and sweet. If there was anything of consequence to discuss about a student’s performance or development, that type of conversation was better served one-on-one with John as the principal, the guidance counselor, and sometimes an academic support specialist if needed. Okay, so maybe it was more of a four-on-one or a four-on-two, depending upon if both parents were available to meet. The point, however, was that there was no need for adult sized chairs on parent-teacher conferences night, because there was neither the time nor the inclination for long, involved discussions.   
  
Oliver, apparently, had not received that memo, because it looked like he was set for the long haul in his little plastic blue chair. Given his forlorn expression… and the cake he was carrying around, Digg was pretty sure they wouldn’t be discussing William, though. It looked like he was in line for another Felicity Smoak commiseration session.   
  
“Here, take it” Oliver offered less than graciously. To go along with the surly words, the younger man also dropped the extended cake onto the desk in front of Diggle, a small cloud of cocoa ballooning upwards and then sinking down to pile like dark, decadent dust over the otherwise neat, glass and metal surface. “It’s a flourless chocolate cake with a coffee mousse.”  
  
“For me? Ah, man, you shouldn’t have.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Oliver grumbled. “You know as well as I do that the cake was meant for Miss Smoak. I followed all of her rules when I selected the recipe, too: it has nothing to do with her Jewish heritage, while, at the same time, not offending it either, and it’s gluten free.” It was still a communication free zone between Oliver and Felicity, so Digg might have passed along the news of his employee’s now gluten-free stance. He considered _not_ telling Oliver, because, in all likelihood, he would be the one enjoying the desserts made for Felicity, but, if anyone could pull off gluten free baking, Digg had confidence in Oliver Queen. “From before, when she used to come into the cafe, I remember how fond she was of coffee.” Diggle had to suppress a snort at that understatement, because, if Felicity Smoak was just _fond_ of coffee, then he was just a passing viewer of sporting events. “So, unless she’s suddenly lactose intolerant or vegan, I think she might have liked the cake.”  
  
He really wanted to slice into the bad boy right then and right there, but John wasn’t sure if or where Felicity might have kept utensils in her desk, and he didn’t really believe his sweet tooth was a good enough excuse to invade her privacy and rifle through her things. As he contemplated suggesting they move their conversation into his office… for Oliver’s comfort sake, of course, he casually mentioned, “maybe going down but not coming back up.”  
  
As much as he could in the tiny chair, Oliver scooted forward, asking with concern, “what do you mean?”  
  
“Felicity’s sick. She left and went home hours ago - before the conferences even started. That’s why she’s not here.” A strange blend of concern and relief passed over Oliver’s face. “Why, what did you think happened?”  
  
The younger man shrugged, rubbed the side of his jaw, and sheepishly looked away. “I figured she ducked out early to avoid me.”  
  
“You do her a great disservice,” Digg admonished, hardening his voice. It didn’t matter if he himself had questioned Felicity’s motives, even wondering if her desire to avoid Oliver was at the root of her illness. He was properly ashamed of his own insulting assumptions, and he wouldn’t let Oliver make the same mistake in questioning Felicity’s dedication to her students or her profession. “Felicity’s a better teacher than that, and we both know it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to make a good impression with her.”  
  
“So, instead, what you’re telling me is that the very thought of having to meet with me, to speak with me, made Miss Smoak so sick that she had to miss parent-teacher night?”  
  
“You know, not everything is about you,” Diggle snapped. He meant it as a reprimand, but there was still a teeny-tiny part of him that wondered if Felicity’s symptoms could have been psychosomatic.   
  
Nerves, apprehension, and feelings of unease could manifest themselves in a variety of physical indications. For example, on the night that he had proposed to Lyla, Digg must have used the bathroom half a dozen times in a matter of thirty minutes. While in the military, he had served with guys who would sweat profusely when stressed, women who would chew their nails down to the quick, and there had even been one guy who pulled out his own hair when under duress. Yes, violently heaving as Felicity had done was an extreme example, but nausea often accompanied nerves. However, Oliver didn’t need to know of Diggle’s suspicions, and he certainly did not need to know the details of Felicity’s illness. Things between the young teacher and parent were already bad enough; John didn’t need to go and make it worse by sharing with Oliver that, when Felicity left his office earlier, she had a subconjunctival hemorrhage due to the severity of her vomiting.  
  
“You’re right,” Oliver conceded graciously. “And I apologize - to you and to Miss Smoak, though she isn’t here and doesn’t know what I said. If you would do me a favor and not tell her about…”  
  
“Say no more,” Diggle interrupted. He had no plans of voicing either his own concerns or Oliver’s less than complimentary conclusions. “This will stay just between us.”  
  
“Thanks, Digg.”  
  
Waving off Oliver’s gratitude, John asked, “did you get a chance to look around the school?”  
  
“I did.” Chuckling, Oliver said, “my son is not an artist.”  
  
Diggle had to agree with him there. Wiliam Queen was a lot of wonderful things… and had many natural skills, but the little boy didn’t seem to have any interest or talent for the arts. A child after his teacher’s own heart, William preferred all things science, proof that, despite… whatever it was that was happening between Oliver and Felicity, Diggle had made the right decision when placing William in Miss Smoak’s class. “I’m sure his mother wouldn’t agree with you.” After all, mothers could always see the beauty in their children’s artwork when nobody else could. In response, Oliver just quirked his brows in acknowledgement of Diggle’s observation, though he didn’t verbally agree with him. Smart man. “Speaking of Samantha, where is she tonight? I noticed she wasn’t on Felicity’s schedule.”  
  
“We went for the divide and conquer approach. She took half of William’s teachers, and I took the other half.”  
  
“And you just happened to make sure that you were the one to meet with Felicity?”  
  
Holding up his hands in self-defense, Oliver reasoned, “that was all William. He insisted.”  
  
“I’m sure he did,” Digg remarked dryly, “seeing as how he’s been your inside man, your snitch, for the past month and a half.”  
  
“It… it’s not like that.”  
  
“Hmph hmph,” John refused to even recognize that poor excuse of an explanation, because they both knew that it was _exactly_ like that. William Queen - second grader, superhero enthusiast, and ice cream appreciator - was his dad’s spy. “Speaking of William, I should probably get to Miss Smoak’s notes about him before your legs fall asleep and you’re stuck in that ridiculous desk for the rest of your life.”  
  
“Or I have to Hulk out of it.”  
  
“You break it; you buy it,” Diggle said automatically. When Oliver didn’t respond, he looked down at Felicity’s paperwork, sorting through the names until he came to William’s. “Despite your best efforts,” he couldn’t help but rib, “as you know, Miss Smoak is very fond of William, and he is excelling in her class. In fact, her remarks are pretty much just smiling emojis. I’m sure, if Felicity was here, she’d be able to translate the images more explicitly, but I see nothing but positive and good things from William.” Flipping the page, John noticed some actual words associated with Felicity’s report on William, and he wasn’t surprised by the remarks. “It says here that she’s recommending him for early admission into our gifted enrichment program. Usually, we don’t start that with our students until the third or fourth grade, but Miss Smoak believes William is ready for and needs the extra challenge now.”  
  
“I’ll have to talk it over with Samantha, but I’m sure that we’ll be in agreement with Miss Smoak.”  
  
Mumbling under his breath, Digg snarked, “there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”  
  
Whether Oliver was ignoring him or just too focused on unfolding himself from the desk and chair designed for a seven year old, Diggle wasn’t sure, but, either way, the younger man didn’t respond to his sardonic comment. He did, however, once he was free and clear and standing upright once again, surprise Diggle when he said, “as for me and Miss Smoak, I’m going to back off, Digg. Whatever caused her to be sick tonight, I’ve realized that, by trying so hard to make her like me, I’m causing her undue stress, and that’s not fair to Miss Smoak or, more importantly, her students. It took a while, but I’ve learned my lesson.”  
  
With a remorseful side eye towards his awaiting cake, John sought clarification, “so, no more baking?”  
  
Oliver chuckled. “I’m not promising that, but I’ll tone it down. And there will be no more food sent in just for Miss Smoak.”  
  
“While I can’t say that my stomach won’t miss the hand-me-down treats, I think you’ve made the right decision for everybody else involved. Come on,” Digg nodded with his head in the direction of the classroom’s exit. “I’ll walk out with you.”  
  
Oliver moved towards the door first, Diggle trailing behind him after he lingered just long enough to pick up _his_ cake. Given Oliver’s realization, it might be a while before Digg received more baked goods, so he certainly wasn’t going to let even a morsel of that flourless chocolate cake with the coffee mousse go to waste.


	6. Halloween - Part Five

**Halloween - Part Five**

_“Max Fuller?!_ She made _Max Fuller_ room parent… over _me_?!”  
  
This was a moment when John Diggle wished that he wore glasses, because, while he could pinch the bridge of his nose in exhaustion anyway, the gesture just seemed so much _more_ when the frustrated person was also dangling a pair of wire rimmed frames from their non-pinching hand. Instead, he had to settle for tossing down the pen he had been using, sitting back in his leather chair with an aggravated sigh, and sending the most unimpressed look he could manage towards the intruding, interrupting, infuriating parent standing, hands on hips, across from his desk. To make matters worse, there were no baked goods in sight to soften the blow.  
  
“Hello to you, too, Oliver. Please, come in. How can I help you today? I’m fine. The family’s looking forward to trick-or-treating this weekend.”  
  
“I get your point,” Oliver finally cut off Diggle’s long list of pleasantries and customary greetings. “But _Max Fuller_?”  
  
Although he couldn’t admit it, because Max Fuller was one of Digg’s student’s parents, just like Oliver, he could commiserate with the younger man. Bottom line, Max Fuller was a jackass. There was no particular run-in that Diggle could cite to justify his opinion of Mr. Fuller, but Max just knew how to rub people the wrong way. Frankly, he had been shocked when Felicity told him of her decision to allow Max Fuller to be her room parent. She explained that, while she knew Fuller had ulterior motives, nothing would come of them. More importantly, no matter what the inspiration behind the offer, it would be good for Mr. Fuller and his daughter, the little girl obviously missing a present parental figure in her life. Putting up with Max Fuller for classroom parties and field trips was the least that Felicity felt she could do in order to perhaps make one of her students’ lives just a little bit better.   
  
“You let this quest to be room parent go, Oliver,” John reminded his friend. “And you promised that you’d back off of Felicity, remember?”  
  
“Yeah, well, that was before she did this.”  
  
Oh, Digg had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he was going to nip it in the bud as quickly as he could. “Just like Miss Smoak missing parent-teacher conferences due to illness had nothing to do with you, her room parent selection was about what was best for her students, not you, Oliver.”  
  
“Max Fuller will be a terrible room parent!”  
  
“He’s a successful businessman. If he can operate a profitable nightclub, I’m sure he can organize a game of pin the tail on the donkey and some cupcakes for fifteen seven year olds.”  
  
Deflating, Oliver sat down, slumping in his chair. “You don’t get it, Digg.”  
  
“Then enlighten me,” the principal suggested.  
  
“Fuller and I, we have a… troubled past.”  
  
Gasping, Diggle mocked, “you don’t say!”  
  
Cutting straight to the point, Oliver confessed, “I slept with his fiancée, now wife.” Compared to the cafe owner’s previous histrionics, the bluntness was appreciated… even if the knowledge itself was unwanted. Tacking on a little more information with a mumble, Oliver added, “at their wedding rehearsal dinner.”  
  
“Everything you’re telling me points to Fuller holding a grudge against you, not the other way around,” John pointed out.  
  
“It was right before everything with Samantha happened. I was a different guy back then, but Max Fuller is still the same shallow, puffed up jerk he’s always been.”  
  
“Wait,” Diggle couldn’t move past the timing of Oliver’s admitted affair. “You said you… had relations with Mrs. Fuller the night before her wedding? There wasn’t a question of who her child’s father was, was there?”  
  
“No, of course not,” Oliver was quick to deny.   
  
Digg wanted to taunt ‘well, if the paternity scandal fit,’ but he refrained. Oliver already seemed stressed enough, and John had a lot of work to do before the classroom parties that afternoon. He needed to sooth Oliver’s ruffled feathers as quickly as he could and get him out of his office as soon as possible, so he could get back to his actual job of being an elementary school principal, not a therapist to confusing cafe owners and genius teachers. “Then I still don’t see why Max Fuller being room parent bothers you so much, Oliver.”  
  
“Because he’s either doing it as a way to get back at me. All of the other parents know that I was room parent last year and wanted to be so again this year. Or he’s using it as a means to get at Miss Smoak.”  
  
“Once more, I remind you that none of this is about you. Whatever Mr. Fuller’s motivations may or may not be,” Diggle warned him, “they’re his business. Besides, if your skin is so thin that you cannot handle another parent getting something you wanted, then you have a long eleven years ahead of you, Oliver.”  
  
“Yes, but Miss Smoak,” the younger man tried to protest.  
  
Digg shut him down right away. “Miss Smoak can handle herself. If she can stay immune to your baking charms, I’m completely confident that she can withstand anything Max Fuller throws at her.” John noticed, when he mentioned Oliver’s own attentions towards Felicity, that the other man started to squirm slightly, his complexion turning ruddy. “But maybe that is what’s really bothering you here: you did everything you could think of to make Felicity like you, but you failed, and, now, another guy has noticed what you yourself are already aware of, and you don’t like it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that you’re jealous.”  
  
“I’ve never been jealous of Max Fuller a day in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”  
  
Grinning in satisfaction - oh, how he loved to be right, and, now that he was married, Diggle had fewer and fewer opportunities to experience that particular joy, he folded his arms smugly over his broad chest. “But you’re admitting that everything else that I said was accurate?”  
  
“I already told you,” Oliver argued, standing up to pace in agitation. “I only wanted Felic… Miss Smoak to like me for William’s sake, and I only wanted to be room parent, because it would give me another chance to spend quality time with my son. My visitation schedule with William is far from generous. I’m just lucky that we live in the same town, because, otherwise, I’d get to see him even less.”  
  
“The principal thinks the baker doth protest too much.”  
  
Seemingly on a roll, Oliver’s steps increased in pace just as steadily as his agitation grew. “Mark my words, this Halloween party will be a disaster… or, at least, it would be if left up entirely to Max Fuller.”  
  
Standing as well, Diggle fisted his hands, pressed them into his desk, and leaned forward on his arms. “What did you do, Oliver?”  
  
“I wasn’t going to let William’s Halloween be ruined.”  
  
“While I’m not agreeing with you that Mr. Fuller will do a bad job, even if he does, and the party is… less than perfect, that does not mean that William’s Halloween will be any less enjoyable, Oliver. He’s seven,” John reminded his friend. “As long as he eats enough sugar and likes his costume, it’ll be the greatest holiday ever… at least until Christmas.”  
  
Still fighting him, Oliver persisted, “well, I don’t want Miss Smoak to be disappointed either.”  
  
“So, now, you’re trying to protect her relationship with Fuller?”  
  
“What relationship,” Oliver snapped.  
  
“Her parent-teacher relationship… just like she has with you and all of the other parents,” Digg reminded him impatiently.  
  
“Right, of course,” Oliver dismissed. “And, no, I want her to see just who exactly Max Fuller is, but I also don’t want her to be disappointed in her class’ Halloween party.”  
  
Wanting to show him just how ridiculous his actions and continued denials really were, Diggle laid Oliver’s entire charade out for him as plainly as he could… along with a few dashes of sarcasm for flavor as well. “Because, somehow, if she isn’t disappointed in the class Halloween party, she’ll start to like you, and that will be better for William… which, as you’ve claimed for the past two months, is your soul desire with all of this nonsense?”  
  
“She’ll have no idea that I had anything to do with the party,” Oliver argued, still not seeing Digg’s point. “I didn’t lie to you when I said that I was going to give up on making her like me… for William’s sake, but William adores Miss Smoak, so, if she’s unhappy with the class’ Halloween celebration, he will be, too.”  
  
“You know, I’m starting to think that you believe in your own nonsense which is just downright scary, Oliver!” Recalling something his friend had just said, he questioned, “and what do you mean by ‘she’ll have no idea that you had anything to do with the party?’”  
  
“When Max Fuller falls flat on his room parent face - which he will, nobody will realize it, because I took care of everything: decorations, a spooky but not scary playlist, games, prizes for all, and, most importantly, the snacks - both healthy _and_ hedonistic.” Looking quite proud of himself, Oliver continued, “when Miss Smoak and her students went to lunch, I set everything up. By the time they get back to the classroom after recess, all they’ll have to do is enjoy the party _I_ created for them.”  
  
“And what the hell are you going to do when Max Fuller sets up _his_ party?”  
  
“If he actually remembered or did anything, then the kids will get two parties in one; if he didn’t, they’ll never know the difference,” the cafe owner explained Diggle’s concerns away… or, at least, he believed he did.  
  
But he didn’t. “Oliver, even if this all goes down the way you see it happening, _I_ know the truth now. You’ve made me complicit!”  
  
“Complicity implies guilt, but I… we did nothing wrong, Digg.”  
  
Standing up straight, John leveled his fiercest glare towards the younger man. “I swear, Oliver, if anything bad happens…,” leaving his threat unfinished yet no less formidable.  
  
“It won’t. Trust me.”  
  
And weren’t those just the famous last words.

oo

  
When John Diggle predicted dire results from Oliver’s interference in Miss Smoak’s classroom’s Halloween party, he had no idea just how right he would be, nor did he ever imagine the latter would end up in the hospital thanks to the former’s adherence to her misadvised gluten strike. Really, he had just feared that Oliver and Max Fuller would come to blows in front of more than a dozen second graders. It never crossed his mind that someone might have an actual brush with death.  
  
“You should have told me you were allergic to nuts,” Digg greeted the weak and weary patient as he entered her hospital room.   
  
“I’m an adult,” Felicity started to defend only for Diggle to interrupt her.   
  
“Then you should start acting like one.”  
  
“And, as an adult, I can take care of myself,” she finished, ignoring his admonishment of her recent childish behavior. “Besides, if anyone should be getting a lecture right now, it’s Oliver Queen. He almost poisoned me with his cookies of deceit.”  
  
Slipping into the bedside chair, Digg defended his friend. “Felicity, he baked with almond flour, because you told him you were gluten free.”  
  
She held up a reprimanding finger, contradicting him. “No, I told _you_ that I was going gluten free, and you must have passed along the information during one of your little gossip sessions.”  
  
“We don’t gossip.”  
  
“Oh, so you weren’t aware that he planned an entire backup Halloween party?”  
  
“The point is,” Digg sidestepped her accusation to the best of his abilities, “you could have died, Felicity. If I had known about your allergy, then I could have told Oliver.”  
  
“No,” the younger woman continued to argue… despite the fact that she was still clearly feeling some discomfort. “The point is that Oliver Queen needs to back off.”  
  
“He is! He was!”  
  
“Really,” Felicity queried, her tone dripping in doubt and challenge despite its current scratchy quality. “Because a little birdy told me that he brought an entire cake to parent-teacher night, and what do you call his swiping room parent responsibilities right out from underneath Max Fuller?”  
  
“A miracle! Because, if it wasn’t for Oliver, you’d have fifteen very disappointed students right about now.”  
  
“I’d also have one more epipen to my name - do you realize how expensive those things are?!, _and_ I wouldn’t be sitting in this hospital bed right now, having this argument with you.” Folding her arms petulantly across her chest, Felicity asked rhetorically, “who bakes with almond flour anyway? You’d think that someone who owned a cafe would be more responsible than that. I’m not the only person in the world with a nut allergy. It’s really quite common, in fact.”  
  
Stretching his legs out in front of him, Diggle made himself more comfortable, because, obviously, he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “He wasn’t baking for his customers, Felicity; he was baking _for you_ , following the rules _you_ gave him.”  
  
“Well, no one asked him to. In fact,” she reminded him oh so unnecessarily, “I distinctly remember telling you to tell him not to bake for me at all.”  
  
“And I distinctly remember telling you to talk to him yourself.”  
  
“Look, this… _discussion_ … isn’t getting us anywhere, so can we agree to just disagree?”  
  
“No, that’s not good enough, not this time,” John turned down her peace offering. “Because of your stubbornness and… whatever it is that you have against Oliver Queen, you almost died today, Felicity, and that is not acceptable.”  
  
“You’re being melodramatic,” she tried to dismiss his worry.   
  
“You turned blue. Your airways swelled shut. You stopped breathing. And your students saw everything.”  
  
“And I regret all of that,” Felicity told him sincerely. “That’s why I tried to keep my distance from Oliver Queen and wanted to discourage him from sending food in for me.”  
  
“Because you knew he’d accidentally cause you to go into anaphylactic shock? Felicity,” John reproached her with kind pity. “I admit that Oliver has been a little overzealous.” He ignored Felicity’s snort of disagreement. “But he has had the best of intentions. He just wants you to like him.”  
  
“Why,” she asked without any inflection. Digg couldn’t tell how Felicity felt about Oliver’s motivations, but her lack of emotion told him that, whatever it was, she felt it deeply.   
  
“While I believe that there’s more to his actions than what he is letting on, he claims it’s for William’s sake - that, because his son likes you so much, he doesn’t want William to notice or be influenced by your dislike of his father.”  
  
“I would never allow how I felt about a parent to influence how I treated a student,” the young teacher defended herself unnecessarily.   
  
“I know. And I told Oliver that as well.”  
  
“Hell, I made Max Fuller my room parent, because I thought that was best for his daughter, and he’s an ass.”  
  
“You’re kind of making my point for me, Felicity,” Diggle said gently. “You were willing to put up with someone who is rude, and pompous, and self-absorbed for the betterment of your student, but you weren’t willing to even talk to Oliver Queen?” He gave her a few moments to absorb what he had just told her before launching into his next assertion. “Just as there’s more to Oliver’s behavior, there’s more to yours as well. I wasn’t going to say anything, and I’m still not going to ask, but I want you to really think about your conduct and why you’re acting this way.”  
  
For several minutes, the room was silent. Digg watched as Felicity avoided his gaze and, instead, focused on her lap where she fidgeted with the scratchy sheet pulled up to her waist and her hospital ID bracelet. When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to respond, he pressed, “so, that’s it? You have nothing to say for yourself?”  
  
“You asked me to think, not talk.”  
  
“Don’t be a smartass, Felicity,” John barked, disillusioned by her attitude.   
  
“While I appreciate you coming with me to the hospital, I think you should go,” Felicity said quietly, losing her snark. “After everything that happened today, the students are going to need you, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave Oliver Queen and Max Fuller in charge of fifteen second graders… let alone in the same room as each other… for longer than we have to. As for me, don’t worry. I’ll be as good as new in a few days, and I plan on using this as a teachable moment, educating my students on allergy awareness and how to react in case of an emergency.”  
  
Although he shook his head in dismay, John stood to leave as instructed. It was obvious that Felicity was not yet ready to confide in him, her literal brush with death doing nothing to make her realize that life was too short for whatever secrets she was keeping. And she wasn’t wrong that, despite having their clearances, neither Oliver nor Max were suitable stand-ins for a trained and certified teacher. Plus, with Oliver already on edge over his guilt and his fear for Miss Smoak, his friend needed Diggle’s reassurance of Felicity’s full recovery more so than his favorite teacher needed to be lectured… at least not while she was still swollen and red with hives, wheezing slightly, and nauseous.   
  
“This is just a reprieve, Felicity,” he warned her as he backed up towards the hospital room’s door. “I’m not giving up.”  
  
“You waved the white flag. I think it’s over.”  
  
“Nope,” Diggle disagreed with her, amused by her wit even when she was frustrating him to no end. “This is just a temporary ceasefire, not a surrender.”  
  
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”  
  
They would. They absolutely would. And soon.


	7. Thanksgiving - Part Six

**Thanksgiving - Part Six**

Felicity Smoak was proving much harder to pin down than Diggle was prepared for.  
  
It had been weeks since her allergic reaction and subsequent trip to the hospital, but, still, he had yet to share another meaningful discussion with the second grade teacher. It wasn’t that she was avoiding him. Oh, no! Felicity Smoak was not one to shirk her duties. She came to school every day, rain or shine, smile or sniffles. When they saw each other in the hallways, she was cordial, polite. She’d say hello, or she would instruct her students to greet him in chorus. No one submitted their grades earlier than Felicity, and her students produced the least amount of issues for Digg, as principal, to handle.   
  
Yet, he didn’t want her to be cordial or polite - not with him and not when they were locked in a war of wills. John wanted to be in the middle of some task only for Felicity to storm into his office, demanding he stop Oliver Queen from baking for her once and for all. He wanted her to ambush him in the morning as he made his way into work, and he wanted her to corner him on his way out, making him late for dinner at home with his family. And he wanted all of this not because he savored her wrath or liked incurring his wife’s but because he realized, whatever was bothering Felicity, whatever was driving this dance between her and Oliver, she needed to tell someone.  
  
So, when she refused to engage with him, electing for entrenchment and avoidance rather than meeting him halfway at the front, Diggle brought in backup. Without sharing too much of what was going on (because Lyla did not need to know about his increased sweets intake), Digg asked his wife for help. She suggested that he should speak to Felicity on neutral ground. If they weren’t at school, maybe Felicity would look to him as her friend and not her boss. With this in mind, Lyla had decreed Friday night date night, and she had called Felicity, asking her to babysit.   
  
Only… Felicity turned Lyla down. Using canned excuses about how busy that time of year was - what, with the holidays approaching and report cards having just come out, Felicity Smoak, for the first time since John and his wife started using her as their babysitter, said no. Felicity _always_ jumped for a chance to spend a few hours at his house with his kids. She genuinely liked Sara and JJ, and now that they had a dog, John was kind of surprised that she hadn’t just moved herself into their guest room. Plus, Felicity claimed that they had the best stocked fridge she’d ever seen, and she particularly appreciated Digg’s man cave, the big screen TV and leather recliner, according to the teacher, perfect for a nice _Fringe_ binge after the kids went to bed.   
  
If Felicity denying herself the opportunity to carb up on _his_ snacks and veg out on psychedelic sci-fi - Digg had tried one of her episodes on his DVR once, and he’d ended up with the song “ _Brown_ Betty” in his head for _weeks_ afterwards… which wasn’t the most appropriate thing for a principal to hum, but, hey, to each their own - wasn’t evidence enough of just how serious this matter was between her and Oliver Queen, then the fact that Veterans’ Day came and went without any fanfare at all was the final proof he needed.   
  
Besides a few parents with lofty political ambitions who put in their four-year minimum far, far away from any warzone and some defense contracts, the students at Starling Prep Elementary were not exposed to the military, they did not know any soldiers, and they didn’t really understand what it meant to serve one’s country. At least, that was the case before John was hired. Or, more accurately, before Felicity Smoak was hired, because, as soon as she began at the school, so, too, did an annual Veterans’ Day program during which the students honored Digg, and he did his best to explain what it meant to be a veteran in terms that were appropriate for children and ones that they could understand. The attention was both appreciated and embarrassing.   
  
When he was eighteen and graduating from high school, there had been no doubt in John Diggle’s mind that he would join the Army - not because of some deep seeded devotion to his country but because that’s what Diggles did. His father had served - died serving, in fact, leaving a wife and two young sons behind, sons who were both eager to follow in their father’s footsteps and honor his memory. While Digg’s mom was a hardworking and dedicated school teacher, she couldn’t afford to send two kids with just average grades to college. The military was a means for Digg to make both of his parents proud: serving for his father and, in the process, getting an education for his mother.   
  
Now, many years later, John didn’t feel like he had done anything extraordinary. In fact, in his opinion, the Army had given him as much as he had given it. For his time, he had received the means to support himself and his family, living a good life, not to mention the fact that said family was only possible because of his time in the military as he had met his wife and the mother of his children while stationed overseas, she herself a former soldier and now a detective with the local PD. But John was also aware enough of the world in which he worked but didn’t belong himself - that of Starling’s most powerful and elite, the city’s most privileged and wealthy - to recognize that, if his students were to understand sacrifice, and duty, and honor, then he and his family’s military background were the only visceral examples they had to follow… at least in regards to Veterans’ Day.   
  
But that year there had been no assembly, no chants for him to give a ‘Speech, Speech, Speech!,’ no special, patriotic artwork on the walls. While Diggle had long since made the connection between Felicity’s arrival at Starling Prep and the school’s acknowledgement of the national holiday, he’d never realized that she hadn’t just suggested the celebration; she’d orchestrated everything singlehandedly. The knowledge touched him. It also made him wonder what the hell was wrong with the rest of his teachers. More than anything, though, it told Diggle that Felicity wasn’t just mad at him over the situation with Oliver; she was sad and scared, too, and that, more than anything else - even the loss of her friendship… if it came down to that, was what had Digg worried. He just… didn’t understand. How could a few unwanted baked goods from an overzealous parent rattle her so badly?   
  
Speaking of Oliver and his baked goods, since Halloween they had been conspicuously absent from Diggle’s life, too. He understood that near death by cookie might give even the most dedicated of baker pause, but he had been really looking forward to some red, white, and blue inspired cupcakes... or maybe even a fruit pizza… for Veterans’ Day, but, much to John’s disappointment, that was one holiday Oliver did not insist upon observing with sweets. So, not only was his favorite teacher avoiding him like lice… which was the elementary school equivalent of the plague, but now he wasn’t even getting treats to help dull his distress.  
  
The knock on his closed office door reminded Digg that he had a meeting scheduled. Earlier that morning, when he first arrived, his secretary had informed him of the addition to his calendar, but John hadn’t questioned the conference or asked for details. If he needed to prepare for the meeting, then Mr. Conway would provide him with the necessary documents. Having been Starling Prep Elementary’s principal for several years now, Digg knew enough about the parents of his students to expect the occasional complaint that Susie hadn’t been invited to Patty’s party or that the basketball coach wasn’t giving Little Michael enough playing time, though he would never become accustomed to people thinking such matters were his problem, principal or not.   
  
While he was expecting the next fifteen minutes of his day to be a ridiculous waste of his time and a drain on his patience, what he received instead was a calm and poised, aloof Felicity Smoak. After Diggle called out for the person knocking on his door to enter, the very teacher who had been so much in his thoughts strode purposefully into his office, her shoulders rolled back and neck stiff and long with determination. Although she didn’t take a seat, she also didn’t fidget, folding her hands delicately in front of her. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Principal Diggle.”  
  
Maybe if Digg hadn’t been so caught off guard by her sudden appearance, he would have reassured Felicity that she never needed an appointment to meet with him and that he was always happy to talk with her. But she had thoroughly surprised him. Add to that shock her formal tone and cold attitude, and he was thrown, addled. While his background and training allowed for his body to adjust almost immediately - he sat up a little straighter, he became more alert, he shifted his features into an expressionless mask, his heart and mind had more difficulty catching up and responding appropriately.   
  
“Felicity!” John could recognize that his voice was too loud, the forced jollity unnatural and uncomfortable, and he could see how badly his favorite teacher was reacting to his fake cheer, but he couldn’t seem to do anything to stop it… or the words that practically fell out of his mouth. “It’s so nice to see you! Please, come in, come in. Take a seat. Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything?” He laughed awkwardly. “Or, I guess, can Gerry get you anything? A coffee? Some water? A cookie?”   
  
The last offer was said in jest, and Diggle knew just how awful of a joke it was even before the words formed on his tongue, but he said them anyway, because he just couldn’t seem to help himself. The more he said, the further away it seemed like Felicity stood from him, and she certainly didn’t take him up on his offer of either chair positioned in front of his desk. “How are you? How have you been? How’s life?” It was a good thing for Diggle that Gerry Conway was discreet, because, if anyone… but especially his wife… ever learned about his _performance_ that morning, John would never be able to show his face in Starling Prep Elementary School again. Even the students would be embarrassed for him, and kids were naturally socially awkward at that age.   
  
Felicity ignored everything he said, each and every offer he made and question he asked and, instead, proposed, “this school needs to do more to give back to the community, starting with volunteering at a soup kitchen in the Glades this Thanksgiving. While you and the majority of the students and staff will remain here, holding your annual feast, I will chaperone a select group of students - of all ages - as they serve the less fortunate a warm, hearty meal. I’ve already made security arrangements with the SCPD, so parents need not fear for their children’s safety, though I am of the opinion that people do not pose a risk simply because they are poor. I’ve also already coordinated transportation to and from the event. One of the bus drivers has agreed to work without pay, and I am personally paying for the gas required to make the trip in and out of the Glades. This afternoon, I will send an email out to all of the parents, announcing this new program and explaining our first volunteer opportunity. To those students who express an interest and whose parents are agreeable, I will then send permission slips. Copies of the signed and returned permission slips will also be provided to the school’s legal counsel, whom I have already briefed about and received approval for my plans.”  
  
“Wow,” Diggle breathed out, amazed. Collapsing back solidly in his chair, he looked at the teacher in front of him with respect, pride, and even a tad bit of intimidation and fear. “I’m impressed… and feeling rather expendable at the moment.” Teasing her and wanting to add a little levity to their meeting, Digg asked, “you after my job, Smoak?”  
  
“I’m merely here to provide you with information, Mr. Diggle. I need nothing from you except your support for my proposed volunteer program. I will personally handle any and all arrangements for this and all future events.”  
  
“Felicity,” he started beseechingly, but she cut him off, interrupting what was going to be an appeal to his friend but also an admonishment as well, because, even if she was mad at him, he hoped that she knew him well enough to know that he’d never prevent her or their students from doing good, that, in fact, he would want to be involved; he would want her to need not his just support but also his participation.   
  
“Given that this is a professional matter, I would prefer if you addressed me as Miss Smoak.”  
  
So, that’s how it was going to be, huh? Fine. Digg could play dirty, too.   
  
Folding his arms over his chest, Diggle eyed the young woman across from him. “While I believe that your idea is excellent, and I’m a little ashamed that I didn’t think of it myself, I know what you’re really doing. Maybe it’s not your only motivation - in fact, you might even be unaware of what’s driving you right now, but all of this is just another way for you to avoid Oliver Queen. If you thought freezing me out would make me drop the matter, then you couldn’t be more wrong, _Felicity_. But go. Volunteer at the soup kitchen. Skip our school’s annual the day before Thanksgiving dinner. Don’t eat Oliver Queen’s donated pies. But know that, when you come back after the break, I’m going to have the same questions about your behavior and your attitude that I did in your hospital room two weeks ago.”  
  
Felicity might have swallowed roughly in reaction to his speech, to his warning, and she even displayed one of her tells when she unnecessarily adjusted her glasses, but that was it; that was all. She said nothing in response except, “thank you for your time, Mr. Diggle. I’ll show myself out now. Good day.”  
  
And, before he could object, or apologize, or compliment her new program once again, or even say goodbye, she was gone… and so, too, was any chance John Diggle had to right what was wrong between him and his favorite teacher or to sate his curiosity in regards to what was happening between Felicity and Oliver Queen. 

oo

  
“Don’t take this as a critique or a complaint, man, because the pies are damn good, but is there something different about your crusts?” Without allowing Oliver to answer his first question, Diggle posed a second one. “And where the hell is the pecan pie?” Maybe he broke the unspoken rule and had a favorite teacher, but John Diggle didn’t play favorites when it came to pies, though he could admit he was quite partial to pecan.  
  
The note of confusion in Oliver’s voice had Digg looking up from his mini smorgasbord of sample-sized sweets. “The crusts are all gluten free, and I’m not making pecan pie this year because of Fel… Miss Smoak’s nut allergy.”  
  
“Aw, man.” He really didn’t want to be the bearer of this bad news, though it didn’t stop Digg from taking another bite. This time, he sampled an amazing cranberry lime custard pie which was definitely a keeper. It had a gingersnap crust, and the combination of those three flavors practically sang in his….  
  
“What? Did something happen to her,” Oliver demanded to know, cutting off Diggle’s silent praises and bringing him back to the moment and matter at hand. At the edge of his seat, the younger man challenged, “I thought you said she was going to be fine after what happened on Halloween.”  
  
“I did. And she was. I mean, she is - fine, that is,” John clarified, putting his friend’s mind at ease. “It’s just that, well, Felicity won’t be there tomorrow at our school Thanksgiving feast.”  
  
It was the day before their day before Thanksgiving dinner, and Oliver had suggested a taste-testing of the dessert menu. He’d never offered such a thing before, but Diggle, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, had readily agreed, volunteering himself as the tester. If he hadn’t been so blinded by his love of all things pumpkin, apple, and sweet potato, then he might have realized that Oliver wasn’t worried about his pie recipes; the cafe owner just wanted Digg’s help in picking the best pies to garner Miss Smoak’s elusive esteem.   
  
Affecting a casual air, Oliver asked, “is she traveling for the holidays?”  
  
It took Oliver asking about Felicity’s Thanksgiving plans to make John realize that he himself didn’t know what the second grade teacher did for the holiday. While he now knew that she was from Vegas, it took Oliver’s harassment by baked goods for Digg to even learn that much about his favorite employee. The fact that he didn’t know how she spent her Thanksgivings just added to his shame, and, unfortunately, what he was about to tell Oliver wasn’t going to help matters either. With all of those mini pies he had sampled suddenly sitting heavy in his gut… not that it stopped him from taking a scoop of a cinnamon sugar butter pie with an oatmeal cookie crust - to die for!, John confessed, “actually, Felicity’s the one who put together the soup kitchen event some of the kids will be attending tomorrow, and she’s chaperoning it, so she’ll be busy all day.” Snagging another bite of the mixed berry plum pie, Diggle spoke around the warm, ooey-gooey deliciousness in his mouth, “didn’t you read all of the paperwork for William’s permission slip?”  
  
There was a tense, stilted pause before the younger man asked, “what permission slip?”  
  
“Oh no,” Diggle exclaimed, realization dawning as his fork slipped out of his hands and clattered messily on top of his desk. Maybe all of his paperwork had been put away before Oliver’s arrival, but baked fruit was super sticky. If he didn’t clean it up now before it dried onto the wooden top, it would take some Pledge and some elbow grease to remove it later. But Oliver was in no frame of mind to wait or for Digg’s Mr. Clean impersonation. So, trying to ignore the crust flakes and smeared pie filling, Diggle offered an explanation. “Oliver, William’s on the list of students attending the volunteering trip tomorrow. Judging by your reaction, I’m guessing his mother signed his permission slip, not you.”  
  
Oliver sighed deeply, sitting back in his chair as he looked up at the ceiling and scrubbed both hands roughly over his face. “Samantha never said anything.”   
  
Diggle was kind of surprised that William hadn’t mentioned it to his father, but he shrugged off the seven year old’s oversight and didn’t mention it to his distressed friend. Instead, he focused his attention on the small window into Oliver’s relationship with, for lack of a better term, his baby mama. Up until that point, at least to Digg, it had seemed like Oliver and Samantha Clayton co-parented seamlessly. If there were any issues, they kept them separate from William, far from the school, and discrete. “You don’t think she did it on purpose, do you?”  
  
“No,” Oliver answered, though by the way he drug out that single, solitary syllable…. “I mean, she knows that I donate the pies for the dinner, and our custody arrangement doesn’t allow me to have William for any of the major holidays. He and his mom go back to Central City where she’s from and where her parents still live for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. So, the dinner tomorrow is the closest thing I get to celebrating the holiday with my son, but, no,” and this time Oliver was more confident in his answer. “Samantha wouldn’t do that. We’re not like that with each other. I’m sure she just didn’t realize how much tomorrow’s school feast means to me.”  
  
“I’m sure if you just explain it to her,” Digg suggested, but Oliver stood up abruptly, cutting him off with a quick, dismissive wave of his hand.  
  
“No, I can’t do that. I don’t want her to feel bad about the fact that she still has a healthy relationship with her family, and it’s good for William to have that time with his grandparents, with all of his great aunts and uncles, his mom’s cousins. Besides, _my_ son is giving up turkey, stuffing, and pie to help others. What kind of dad would I be if I told him he couldn’t do that, because I wanted to have lunch with him… and a hundred and fifty other kids?”  
  
Using his very best principal voice, John said, “you wouldn’t have to say anything to William, Oliver. If you would just _talk_ to Felicity - no food this time!, she would understand. Tell her how much this dinner means to you. Tell her about your custody arrangement. Let her see how much you love your son and miss having these special moments with him. And I guarantee you that she would even play the bad guy for you and tell William that he can’t go to the soup kitchen, that he has to stay here for the school’s Thanksgiving feast.”  
  
A sad Oliver declined his idea. “She already doesn’t like me, Digg. The last thing I’m going to do is show her just how selfish I am.”  
  
“Man, it’s not selfish to want to spend a holiday with your son.”  
  
“It is when the alternative is him serving lunch to the poor.” Resigned, Oliver added, “I’ll see William this weekend… like I always do.” With a nod of his head, the younger man told him, “enjoy your pies, Digg,” before walking out of John’s office without even a backwards glance.   
  
Feeling sad and depressed for his friend and a little like a glutton with so many pies, even if they were mini, spread out before him, Diggle did the only thing he could think of in that moment: he called out for backup. “Grab a fork, Gerry!”  
  
After all, misery loved company, right? And pie.   
  
He’d email Oliver with his menu decisions later.


	8. Hanukkah - Part Seven

**Hanukkah - Part Seven**

John Diggle could not get comfortable. He tried shifting to one side of his chair and then the other. That didn’t work. He pushed it away from his desk, slouched down, and leaned back, but that didn’t work either. Then, he reversed his movements, sitting up as straight as he could and rolling his chair so it fit as snugly as it possibly could with the edge of his desk. That was even worse. He was contemplating the notion of trading out his desk chair for one of the arm chairs positioned across from him and meant for guests when he heard someone approaching his open office door. So, instead, he proposed, “I think maybe I should get one of those standing desks, Gerry. This chair is shot. Has it always been this uncomfortable?”  
  
“Right,” came his secretary’s sarcastic, dry rejoinder. Glancing up from where he had been glowering at his overall, unsatisfactory office arrangement, Digg was met with not one but two men standing in the doorway, neither of whom were a surprise, really. With his gaze pointedly fixed on Oliver Queen and the royal blue gift bag swinging from his far hand, Gerry commiserated, “it’s the chair’s fault,” before slipping away, not even making an attempt to introduce the by now routine visitor or offer him any refreshments.   
  
Although it was the first day of Hanukkah, Diggle had not been expecting Oliver. His greeting and opening question said as much. “What are you doing here, man?”  
  
The younger father held up the bag, an obvious gift, but, based on past experience and the color, Digg knew, whatever was inside, it wasn’t for him. “I just wanted to drop off Ms. Smoak’s Hanukkah present.”  
  
“And you didn’t send it in with William like all of the other parents because…?”  
  
“I thought maybe, if I offered you some assurances about the contents, you’d pass them along for me?” When Diggle didn’t immediately agree, Oliver continued, “I couldn’t very well tell William that he had to first provide his teacher with a very long and complicated explanation before she would accept his gift. And it is William’s gift, Digg. I only did as much to help him as his safety required.”  
  
“What’s in the bag, Queen?”  
  
“Gelt,” Oliver was quick to answer, swallowing roughly. “Homemade gelt. That’s it. I swear.”  
  
“And William made it?”  
  
Gingerly placing the bag down on a side table, Oliver held his hands up in self-defense. “All I did was melt the chocolate and help William use the food processor. Otherwise, yes, he did everything himself. He picked the flavors. He assembled the candies. He even wrapped every single disk of chocolate in gold foil on his own.”  
  
Although John was teasing - the quirk of his brow the only indication, he couldn’t help but ask, “no nuts?”   
  
Judging by the young father’s quick and insistent response, Diggle knew the moment of humor was lost on the other man. “Absolutely not! After last time, I would never! William would never! There’s also no gluten and no bacon.”  
  
Slowly, he stood, bracing his legs shoulder width apart before folding his arms over his chest. “Alright. I’ll make sure the present and the message get back to Felicity, though I make no promises that she’ll actually accept either.”  
  
Oliver nodded along, visibly grateful. “That’s all I ask, Digg. Thank you.”  
  
Jutting his chin towards the hallway beyond Gerry’s office and the classrooms that hallway led to, Diggle asked, “why aren’t you down at the holiday party?”  
  
“I’m not going.”  
  
“What,” John snickered at his own suggestion, though he wasn’t offering it completely in jest. “Did you break into the school and set everything up last night?”  
  
“Of course not,” Oliver denied. When Digg just tilted his head and stared pointedly at the younger man, Oliver fidgeted, avoiding his gaze. “I’m not… I didn’t… I learned my lesson, okay? Felicity… Miss Smoak doesn’t want me... or my food… anywhere near her or her classroom. So, I’m not pushing in on the party. Whatever Max Fuller does or does not do as room parent, that’s on him… even if the party’s a disaster. William will be fine either way, and I have complete faith in Miss Smoak’s ability to make the day special for her students… even if their holiday party isn’t.”  
  
While it had taken him several holidays and one trip to the emergency room too long, never let it be said that Oliver Queen couldn’t learn his lesson. It just took a while, and the process could be painful for all involved. However, with that said, perhaps there was a silver lining to Oliver’s stubborn tenacity, and Diggle felt like the cafe owner deserved to know that, despite all of his missteps, something good had happened because of his… persistence. “Felicity’s not here, man.”  
  
The surprised, “what,” that burst forth from Oliver’s mouth told Digg that Oliver was no longer pumping his son for information about Felicity.   
  
“Yeah, for the first time since she moved here, she went home for the holidays - back to Vegas to spend Hanukkah with her mother. In fact, she used a personal day. I wasn’t even sure Felicity knew what a personal day was before she put in the request last week.”  
  
“Miss Smoak’s from Las Vegas?!”  
  
John had to stifle a laugh at Oliver’s expense, the other man’s shock apparent and not too far off Digg’s own reaction to Felicity’s hometown. “By way of Cambridge Massachusetts, but, yes, born and raised, apparently.”  
  
What Diggle expected was for Oliver to latch on to the Cambridge reveal and ask a million questions about Felicity’s college experience - not that Digg knew anything really… well, besides what had been on Felicity’s resume and transcripts, so, when the other man stumbled forward to sit down heavily upon one of his guest chairs, he was taken aback enough to retake his own seat. Oliver’s elbows landed on his knees, and his head fell forward to rest against the palms of his hands. “I did this,” he mumbled self-deprecatingly. “I drove her away.”  
  
“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” John exclaimed, already rolling his eyes. He wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant to seek patience or to mock. Maybe both?  
  
But Oliver paid him no mind, ignoring the exclamation in favor of further self-ridicule. “She hates me so much that she left town just to avoid the chance of seeing me at her class holiday party!”  
  
Deciding that volume and language unbecoming of an elementary school principal were both warranted and needed to get through to Oliver, Diggle exploded, “pull your head out of your own ass, man! Not everything is about you!”  
  
“But…,” Oliver tried to protest.   
  
Diggle cut him off, refusing to let the young father say even just one more asinine thing. “I don’t know what Felicity’s reasons were in the past. Maybe Hanukkah fell too early in the year, and she didn’t have enough personal days to go home. Perhaps her mother’s schedule didn’t allow for her to visit for the holidays. Or, hell, who knows; she might not have wanted to spend the money. But I do know one thing: Felicity Smoak did not go home to Vegas this year because of you… at least, not in the way you think.”  
  
For the first time since he sullenly collapsed into a chair, Oliver looked up, regarding Diggle curiously. That was all the incentive John needed to keep talking, to explain further. Plus, the more he talked, the less opportunities Oliver had to say something stupid that would only piss Digg off even more. “Because of your… _attentions_ ,” Digg couldn’t help but notice the way Oliver flushed and darted his eyes away briefly at the use of the word ‘attentions,’ “Felicity started opening up to me some about her personal life, her family. That combined with all of your reminders about her heritage and the allergy scare she had ....” Oliver winced at that, but there was no nicer way that Diggle could mention the near death-by-baked-good experience. “I think everything made her reexamine a few things about her life, including the obvious distance, not just physical, between her and her mother. In part, you’re responsible for that, Oliver… in a really strange and twisted way. So, forget the gelt; that’s your real gift to Miss Smoak.”  
  
“William’s gift,” Oliver corrected instinctively. It made Diggle question if the younger man had really listened to anything he had said… well, besides the parts that fed into his guilt towards and obvious curiosity about Felicity.   
  
Exhausted… and oh so grateful for the almost two weeks of vacation he had coming up for winter break, Diggle stood, ready to force an end to Oliver’s visit and their conversation. “Like I said,” he told the cafe owner, “I’ll make sure that Felicity gets her present... and the message that goes along with it.”  
  
Taking the heavy-handed hint, Oliver stood and advanced towards the door. “Thanks again, Digg. And happy holidays, man.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Diggle found himself grumbling as he sat down once again, ready to get back to work. But his chair was _still_ uncomfortable. _And_ he was not feeling happy _or_ holly-jolly in the least. It was only Gerry’s taunting from earlier which prevented John from grumbling about where was his present from William or from sampling a few pieces of Felicity’s gelt.

oo

  
There was something rotten in the state of Starling Prep Elementary… and by rotten Diggle meant off. Wrong. Not right.  
  
Although he still kept his conceal-carry license up-to-date, Digg’s trusted glock was locked up safe and sound at home. Being an elementary school principal precluded needing to carry a weapon, which was just one of many reasons why his career choice appealed to him. However, despite this, he still possessed some very finely-honed instincts, instincts which had kept him safe while in the military… and even before that while he was growing up, too. It wasn’t like he was from the wrong side of the tracks. After all, his mom had a good job, and they also had his dad’s pension, but, growing up, his little brother Andy could smell out trouble as well as Diggle could now smell out cookies, and Starling City wasn’t exactly known for its middle-class neighborhoods. There was the Glades, and then there were neighborhoods like the one he now lived in as a private school principal.   
  
So, as John made his way through the dark and deserted school, he remained on high alert. He kept his head on a swivel and his eyes peeled. His footsteps were silent, helping him to better listen to his surroundings and not alert anyone of his own presence. Because, whatever the reason for the awareness, he knew that he wasn’t alone like he should have been. His car was the only one in the parking lot, and the school was closed for the holidays, but someone besides him was in that building. He just… knew.  
  
What he couldn’t figure out as he looked for the source of his adrenaline and suspicions was why someone would be there. While the families who sent their kids to Starling Prep were prime targets for thieves, an elementary school was not. Unless there was a criminal out there jonesing for some top of the line art supplies and some common core textbooks, he wasn’t sure what the intruders would be after. Even the information contained in all of his paperwork and files wouldn’t be worth the risk of jail time, especially when a digital break-in would be much better suited to steal records than some Marv and Harry impersonation. If it wasn’t so quiet and an elementary school, Digg might have thought the intruders were students, looking to exact a little vengeance against their teachers and administrators by way of vandalism.  
  
What he now realized was a foolish, rookie mistake, Digg had left his cell phone in the car, believing his trip into the school to be a quick errand and not wanting to get sidetracked. So, if he wanted to report the illegal presence, he would have to call the police from a landline… which meant getting to his office. That had been his destination all along, but, now, he moved towards his workspace with a sense of urgency.  
  
The school was designed so that to get to the principal, one had to walk through the main office first. John found that door to be shut but unlocked. If his secretary was anyone else besides Gerry Conway, Digg would just assume it was an oversight. A mistake. But Gerry Conway did not make mistakes. In fact, if his secretary even knew that Diggle had thought his name in connection with the word ‘mistake,’ he’d receive more than just some passive-aggressive side-eye concerning Digg’s sweet tooth. At the same time, however, there was no sign of any damage to the door, so either the intruders had picked the lock or they had a key. Just as Diggle was having this realization, he also heard a soft, feminine hiccup coming from his office, and he instantly knew what was going on.  
  
No longer caring about his approach, Diggle shed all of his stealth tactics and barged into his office, flicking on the overhead lights at the same time as he demanded to know, “what the hell do you think you’re doing, Felicity Smoak?!”  
  
In response, he received a high pitched, “eep!,” and a rain shower of little, gold coins. In startling his favorite teacher, she jumped so hard and so high that the gift bag of gelt she had been holding flew out of her hands and upended itself, spilling candy… everywhere, though she did manage to hold onto the homemade card she was clutching so tightly.   
  
“Oh my god, Digg, don’t do that,” Felicity yelled at him, clutching her heart and breathing heavily.  
  
“Don’t do what exactly,” he demanded to know. If it wasn’t for the mountain of shopping bags he was carrying, Digg would have fisted his hands on his hips. Yes, he realized the pose was very Mama Diggle, circa 1986, but it had been effective then, and it was still effective now. After all, when it came to reprimanding ornery children, he had learned from the best.   
  
“Scare me,” Felicity answered, breaking into John’s reminiscing. “Sneak up on me!”  
  
“Felicity, you broke into _my_ office.”  
  
Felicity stood and started to gather up her gelt. “Breaking in implies damage, Diggle, and I didn’t hurt anything.” As an aside under her breath, she added, “well, except for maybe my pride,” though he could hear every word crystal clear.   
  
“No, breaking in implies unlawful entry.”  
  
“But I used my key,” the young woman defended, waving said key around as proof.   
  
Sighing in resignation, John decided to let her… unexpected presence in his office go in favor of focusing not so much on the how but on the why. As Felicity continued to retrieve her candy, refilling her royal blue bag, Digg unloaded his own arms, stacking up the Christmas presents he and Lyla had purchased that night behind his desk. Now with their kids getting old enough to ask questions and, even worse, snoop, Diggle used his office as temporary storage and a wrapping station. On Christmas Eve, after the kids went to bed, he’d come back, pick up their gifts, and then deposit them under the tree and in their stockings, keeping the myth of Santa Claus going for another year.   
  
Once all of his shopping bags were put down, though, Felicity’s reprieve ended. Legs braced apart and arms folded over his chest - the same stance he had taken just that afternoon while reprimanding Oliver, Diggle questioned, “I thought you were in Vegas?”  
  
Felicity paused in her game of 52 pickup, the candy edition. She stood up straight, turned to face Digg, and calmly answered, “I never said anything about Vegas.”  
  
“You told me you were going home to celebrate Hanukkah with your mother.”  
  
“And I did,” she defended. When John opened his mouth to protest, Felicity kept talking. “I was at home today. _My home_ \- here, in Starling City. And I called my mom to wish her a Happy Hanukkah. We lit our menorah together while talking. It was a little late for her and a little early for me, but I always tell my students how important compromise is when they have a conflict. Considering the fact that my entire existence is in conflict with my mother’s, I figure our resolution to this should be no different. Besides, she acts like a seven year old half of the time anyway.”  
  
Digg could say the same thing about his favorite teacher _and_ his favorite baker.   
  
“And you’re now here in my office, sitting in the dark and eating candy because…?”  
  
“Well, it _is_ my candy,” she offered as a response.   
  
Yeah. Because _that_ explained so much. _Not._  
  
“I’m aware of that, Felicity,” Diggle huffed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation.   
  
“William made them for me. For Hanukkah. All my favorite foods… in chocolate form: mint chip ice cream, strawberry milkshakes, French fries. And it’s the only real Hanukkah gift I’m going to get, Digg.”  
  
It was then that he noticed the entreating quality to her voice, the not quite so dry tear tracks on her rosy cheeks. While Diggle appreciated the return to informality between them - having caught her off guard, he was willing to risk Felicity’s coldness returning in order to push the moment and, perhaps, finally get some answers. For the first time since this whole mess with Oliver Queen started, Felicity was showing signs of emotional vulnerability. So, Digg decided to press her, because, in doing so, maybe he’d finally get some answers for Christmas. “Oliver helped him.”  
  
“I know,” Felicity said… like the knowledge should have been obvious. And then a torrent of words started to fall from her lips, and Diggle had to take a step back as he braced himself against the onslaught. “Did you know that they have breakfast for dinner every Saturday night? Oliver’s teaching William how to cook, and they’re starting with breakfast foods, because William said they’re the easiest. I mean, I don’t know about that. I can’t even cook a plain omelet without them turning out more like an overly salted yet still somehow bland black and white cookie, but I’m a special kind of awful when it comes to the kitchen. But William’s not. And, obviously, Oliver’s a Mensa level cook… if Mensa had a culinary chapter. Which they don’t, by the way.   
  
“Anyway,” she continued, taking a breath and then just… plunging back in. “Because they have breakfast for dinner on Saturday night, I guess Oliver wakes up early every Sunday morning to make William homemade pizza. Most kids have pizza on Saturday nights, and Oliver doesn’t want him to miss out on anything, so they have homemade pizza for breakfast every Sunday. That way, William still has his cooking lessons _and_ gets to sleep in on Sundays.”  
  
When she finally stopped talking, Digg offered a tentative, “okay…?,” because, really, he had no idea what he was supposed to do or say to… any of that. He did find it interesting, however, that Felicity knew so much about William’s relationship with his dad and that, in her compromised state, she had forgotten her formalities and was referring to Oliver by his first name.   
  
“Don’t you get it, Digg?” The question was rhetorical; Felicity didn’t expect an answer. But he didn’t get it. He didn’t get _any_ of it. And that was the problem. “Oliver is an amazing father, so of course I know that he helped William make the gelt, because he wouldn’t want him to get burnt while melting the chocolate or cut when using the food processor.”  
  
John didn’t know a lot about Felicity’s background or history at MIT, but he knew she was once heavily involved with electronics. It was eerie how she knew exactly what Oliver himself had told Digg in regards to his participation in the candy making. If Diggle didn’t know better, he’d think that Felicity had a bug in his office. But that was crazy talk… well, _crazier_ talk, and he was finally getting somewhere in regards to Felicity’s response to and thoughts on Oliver Queen. In all likelihood, it was more along the lines of ‘those who can’t do (i.e. cook), eat, so Felicity understood the principles behind candy making; she just couldn’t actually make candy. “But you hate Oliver?”  
  
Pivoting around so that she was no longer facing him and once more returning to picking up her candy, Felicity mumbled, “I never said that.”  
  
“But you’ve implied it.”  
  
“I distinctly remember intentionally never stating my feelings one way or another for Oliver Queen.”  
  
Diggle made sure to jump on that not so tiny nugget. “You admit there are feelings?”  
  
Felicity scoffed. “Even ambivalence is a feeling, Digg.”  
  
“So, you admire Oliver Queen as William’s father, but, personally, you feel nothing for him? You neither like nor dislike him. You’re… Switzerland. Yet, you made me believe that you were flying to Las Vegas to spend Hanukkah with your mother so to avoid even the chance of seeing Oliver at your class’ holiday party today?”  
  
Felicity finished cleaning up her gelt before she responded. With her now filled gift bag in hand once more and her back towards him, she whispered, “I don’t dislike Oliver.” With a sniffle, she added, “that’s the problem, Digg,” before leaving his office without a glance behind her.  
  
Although Felicity moved away quickly, John easily could have caught up with her, questioned her soft, sad confessions, and had the last word. But he was rooted in his spot by the naked, heartfelt honesty of her words and by the broken heart which was so obviously behind them. He had known from the very start of the school year that there was something else going on with his favorite teacher, but never had he imagined whatever it was to run so deeply. He still had a lot of questions, but there was one thing he knew for sure: when it came to Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak was anything but Switzerland.


	9. Christmas - Part Eight

**Christmas - Part Eight**

If the person outside of John Diggle’s house rang the bell or knocked just one more time, he was going to give them a whole new definition of _Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire_! It was Christmas Eve for crying out loud, his family was having dinner, and he was wearing a Santa suit!  
  
“What,” he bellowed, whipping the door open and not even looking at who was interrupting his festivities. Even if he had taken a glance first, he still wouldn’t have recognized the person standing on his front porch. Oh, he knew her, but Digg had never quite seen her looking like… _that_ before. “What is so very important that you felt the need to….”  
  
Despite his large, looming presence, his _guest_ slithered by him and somehow got inside, ignoring his question and interrupting him. “Oh god, it’s really bad this time, Digg.”  
  
“Felicity?!” Her hair was windblown and disheveled, her cheeks showed signs of obvious crying, and she was wearing pajamas, slippers included.  
  
“I messed up. _So. Badly.”  
  
_If it was any other day, he’d want to know what had happened; he would want to help her. But _Christmas Eve?!_ “Do you have any idea what time it is? Hell, what tonight even is?”  
  
Lifting her hands to carelessly shove her hair out of her face, Felicity must have finally looked at Diggle, because she returned his question with one of her own. “What are you wearing?”  
  
He threw up his arms in aggravation. “What the hell does it look like? It’s a Santa suit!”  
  
“Ooh,” she flushed crimson, looking nervously over her shoulder. With her right index finger, Felicity motioned between Digg and the stairs they were standing beside. “Is this a Gentile sex thing? I totally interrupted a sex thing, didn’t I?”  
  
Okay. _Now_ , despite the holiday, Diggle was worried. Was his favorite teacher on something? Felicity Smoak didn’t seem like the recreational drug type, but John had been wrong about people before. Maybe he had been wrong about Felicity, too. Unfortunately, his concern came across as irritation. “Are you kidding me right now, Felicity? Of course, it’s not a sex thing! Why would you even ask me that?”  
  
“Have you heard your Christmas carols recently? I mean, _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus_ is kinky enough, but _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ is practically the roofie anthem.”  
  
“Aw, man, Felicity; don’t ruin Dean Martin for me.”  
  
But she just ignored him, ranting on. “Between not letting the woman leave, and practically hypnotizing her into somnolence with the fire, and who knows what the hell he put in that drink. She even asks in the song, and it’s just blatantly brushed over, ignored!”  
  
Reaching up to pull his Santa hat off, Diggle sighed. This was definitely _not_ going to be a quick visit, so he figured he better just bite the bullet and pull up his metaphorical therapy couch. But first, “if either of us needs to explain what we’re wearing, it’s you. Is that a housecoat?”  
  
His favorite employee threw him a nonplussed look. “It’s called a robe, Digg. Sheesh,” she taunted him. “Between _my monthly friend_ and now this, a housecoat, you’d think you were living in the 1950s again.”  
  
“Yes, because they had so many black private elementary school principals in the 50s.”  
  
“If you haven’t noticed,” Felicity ignored his snark, “it’s quite chilly outside. I didn’t feel like changing out of my pajamas, but they’re too bulky for my winter coat, so I wore my robe to the grocery store. It’s Christmas Eve. No one was supposed to be there to see me like this, Digg!”  
  
Now they were finally getting somewhere…. Not only was Felicity aware of the night’s significance, but, apparently, his house wasn’t her first stop. If he had to guess, he’d wager that whoever else had seen her in her bedtime finest was at the root of this not so minor freak-out. Curious despite himself, John leaned back against the wall, crossed one black booted foot in front of the other, and asked, “who’d you see?”  
  
“He shouldn’t have even been there,” she ranted, eyes narrowing in first anger and then confusion. “He has a family. Why wasn’t he with his family, Digg?”  
  
_Ooh!_ So, this was about Oliver. Diggle had to bite the inside of his cheek not to start laughing right then and there. “Well, Samantha takes William back home with her to Central City for the holidays, and Oliver’s not particularly close with the rest of his family… not after, well, everything.”  
  
If Felicity heard his explanation, she didn’t give any signs of actually comprehending it. “When I first moved here, started working at Starling Prep, I used to go into his cafe every day - for coffee, pastries, sometimes lunch, always for the flirty-flirt. I had _such_ a ginormous crush on him, Digg. He probably thought I was pathetic. No,” Felicity corrected herself, sniffling, “I _was_ pathetic. Because, a year later, what did I learn? He wasn’t just the cute cafe owner with the twinkling blue eyes, and the softest looking lips, and the best buns I’d ever seen.” At this, Digg coughed in surprise, blushing on behalf of his favorite teacher who didn’t even seem to realize that he was still there _or_ what she might have said. (When Felicity was worked up, her babbles became downright confusing, what was and what wasn’t a euphemism damn difficult to distinguish.) “Oh, no! He was also a parent, and his son went to my school. I was so embarrassed, so… heartbroken, that I stopped going into the cafe altogether.”  
  
“He didn’t think you were pathetic, Felicity. And Oliver noticed when you stopped going to the cafe. It bothered him.” He didn’t think admitting these things told to him in confidence would offend Oliver, especially since, if this conversation continued going the way it was so far and the way Diggle saw it concluding, he’d finally have some answers for the both of them as to why Felicity Smoak treated Oliver Queen the way she did.  
  
“I thought that would work, you know - the distance, my disappointment. But it didn’t. Then, two years later, along comes William, and I just knew that everything was going to become so much worse. And it did. Because he wasn’t just the really cute guy with the freshest beans I’d ever tasted; he was also this amazing father.” Collapsing onto the bench positioned on the opposite wall of the stairs, the volume of Felicity’s voice dropped several notches as she tearfully confessed, “with every story about his dad that William shared with me, with every smile Oliver brought to William’s face, I realized that I wasn’t just crushing on Oliver Queen anymore, Digg; I fell in love with him. I _am_ in love with him. And it’s all a disaster; my career _and_ my life are disasters!”  
  
Okay, sure, having feelings for and possibly dating one of her students’ parents wasn’t the most professional move for a teacher to make, but it could be worse, and it wasn’t like Oliver wouldn’t be receptive towards her feelings. Despite his denials to the contrary, Oliver didn’t just want Felicity to like him for William’s sake. Diggle had known that for months, no matter what the young father claimed. Now, John never saw Felicity’s feelings coming… at least, not the strength or the depth of them at any rate, but this situation was far from a disaster… even if Oliver had caught Felicity grocery shopping in her pajamas, slippers, and _housecoat_.  
  
Damn it, there was nothing wrong with calling a robe a housecoat!  
  
Now, he just had to convince Felicity of as much… about Oliver, not his pajama vernacular... and then get her the hell out of his house, so he could go back to his Christmas Eve dinner before Lyla’s uncle ate all of the asparagus casserole. “If you would just talk to him - and, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe someone very wise and very intelligent has been giving you this same advice _for months now_ , then I’m sure you’d find that Oliver has feelings for you, too, Felicity.”  
  
“He can’t,” she denied automatically.  
  
“No, I’m pretty sure he can. And he does.”  
  
“I mean, he shouldn’t. And, if he does, then that should be enough to destroy my feelings for him. But it doesn’t. Because, apparently, I’m an awful person _and_ a bad woman.”  
  
“There isn’t an awful or bad bone in your body, Felicity Smoak,” Diggle chastised her.  
  
But she ignored him. Like always. “I’m a… I’m a strumpet, Digg!”  
  
That time, he couldn’t hold back his laughter. Though it came out as muffled, John was still giggling when he asked, “excuse me?!”  
  
“But, before tonight, I at least still had my dignity, but now that’s gone, too. Oliver might not know that I… like him, but he does now know that I’m a liar. I’m a regular ol’ Pinocchio.” To punctuate her words, Felicity lifted a hand to her still very much petite nose, but, instead of mimicking its growth, she rubbed at the red and runny feature, the cold and her emotions wreaking havoc upon her sinuses.  
  
Once more, he tried to sooth her. “You’re not a liar, Felicity.”  
  
“He saw me standing in front of the bakery counter double fisting cupcakes, Digg - non-gluten free, non-Kosher, Christmas decorated cupcakes! So, not only does he think that I hate him, but now he also thinks that I am a liar _and_ that I hate his baked goods. I’ve insulted his family, I’ve insulted his business, and I’ve insulted his abilities as room parent. I should have made him room parent, Digg, but I was scared.”  
  
Quite frankly, he had no idea what to say. With his mouth hanging open wide in a speechless stupor, Diggle tried to think of something that might calm Felicity down, but he just… couldn’t. And then she was standing, and then she was pacing, and then she was speaking again. “You should have seen his face. He just… froze. He was holding a bag of cranberries, and he was looking at me like I had mowed down his puppy, and I just ran. I turned around, and I sprinted out of that store as fast as I could.”  
  
“What about the cupcakes,” Diggle found himself asking. He really didn’t care about the cupcakes, but it was the most tangible question he could land upon.  
  
Spinning around to look at him, Felicity gasped. “Oh my god, I stole them. I’m a thief. I stole Christmas cupcakes on Christmas Eve, and Oliver Queen watched me do it. I’m a liar, and a strumpet, and a horrible person, and a wannabe homewrecker, and, now, I’m a thief, too.”  
  
_Now_ he understood. Apparently, Felicity Smoak wasn’t just averse to talking to Oliver Queen; she must also be adamantly against listening to (or reading) anything about him either. Shaking his head in exhausted exasperation, a little sympathy, and a fair dash of hangry annoyance, John pushed off from against the wall and walked over until he was standing in front of his favorite teacher. Wrapping his hands around her shoulders, he squeezed once, twice in what he hoped was a bracing, comforting gesture, smiling down softly at her. “Now, I don’t know about any of that, Felicity, but you might just be the girl from that Christmas song by The Waitresses.”  
  
She groaned, her head falling back in realization and acceptance. “‘Bah Humbug, now that’s too strong,’ Digg!”  
  
Before he could laugh, or offer her a hug, or even invite her further inside to join his family’s Christmas Eve dinner, his doorbell rang _again_ ; before Diggle could even turn to let Oliver inside - because there was no doubt who was on the other side of his front door, Felicity let out a squeaky “eep!,” and then dashed into the closet underneath the stairs, obviously knowing that she had been followed from the grocery store.  
  
Shaking his head in exasperation and shrugging off his Santa jacket - that thing might not be made for living at the North Pole or flying around in a sled pulled by reindeer, but it was damn hot anyway, and Digg had a feeling he wasn’t returning to his family or his dinner anytime soon, John took a quick, deep breath and shook out his shoulders. It was time for round two. 

oo

Diggle barely had his front door cracked open before Oliver Queen was shouldering his way through, already talking. “I need your help, Digg.”  
  
While he knew that his face resembled some kind of grimace, twisting it up in put upon frustration was the only way that he could prevent a smile. Despite his best efforts, Diggle was pretty sure the laughter could still be heard in his voice, though, luckily for him, Oliver was too far gone in his own worried thoughts to actually notice. “You don’t say.”  
  
“I screwed up. I made a mistake. I realize that now. But I need to make it better. You can help me make it better.”  
  
If nothing else told him that Oliver and Felicity, his two idiots, were perfect for each other, it was their inability to actually get to the point. They both talked in circles, and it was making him damn dizzy. “And just what exactly will I be doing?”  
  
“I need you to remove William from Miss Smoak’s classroom.”  
  
Considering that the teacher in question was hiding that very moment in Diggle’s front entryway closet, he had to wonder just how much she could hear and if Oliver could possibly say anything that would make her reveal her hidden presence. In order to test his curiosity, however, he would have to see Oliver’s lunacy through. “Are you withdrawing him from Starling Prep?”  
  
“What, no,” Oliver immediately dismissed, seemingly caught off guard by the question… which was a relief - that he wasn’t _that far_ gone. Yet. “Of course not.”  
  
“Then what exactly do you want me to…?”  
  
“Just… can’t you switch his teachers,” Oliver interrupted, practically pleading. Diggle just quirked his brows, silently ordering more of an explanation. “Look, I know that I specifically asked you to place him in Miss Smoak’s class, and I know that I told you that my request was only about William. But I… lied.”  
  
Drolly, John remarked, “no!”  
  
If Oliver heard his sarcasm, he didn’t react to it. In fact, as the younger man started pacing… much like Felicity had just been doing herself minutes before… and running an agitated hand through his short hair, Digg started to wonder if Oliver could even recall that he had sought Diggle out at his home – on Christmas Eve, no less!, that Diggle was even there. “I think I fell for her the very first day she came into the cafe. I didn’t wait on her. In fact, I rarely waited on her, because I was always afraid of what I would say. Or not say. I actually… don’t know what I was doing there that day. But I remember that it was sweltering. In fact, there were power outages, I believe. But Felicity still ordered hot coffee, because she said that iced coffee eventually tasted too watered down.”  
  
Oliver chuckled to himself, grinning softly. He looked like a damn fool, standing there in Diggle’s foyer - no coat, no scarf, no gloves but still holding a plastic grocery bag containing fresh cranberries. John didn’t know if the young father had run out of his house unprepared for the winter weather or, in his distraction after seeing Felicity in the store, stripped off his winter wear while driving to Digg’s house. But there was absolutely no way he was going to ask, because that would interrupt Oliver, and not even his late mother’s yule log was incentive enough to tear Digg away from Oliver’s reminiscing.  
  
“She was so… animated, so bright, so… full of life. Everyone else was miserable because of the weather, but she didn’t seem to notice it. The humidity made her hair frizz, creating this halo of curls around her face despite the fact that her hair was up in a ponytail, and her glasses were slipping down her nose, because she was sweating, but Felicity just smiled, and ordered her coffee, and she did this cute little scrunch thing with her cheekbones to push her glasses back up, and I was just… gone.  
  
“For a year, she came into the cafe, and I got to witness her warmth and humor, her kindness, her joy for life. I didn’t talk to her much, but just seeing her was enough. Until it wasn’t anymore. Until she stopped coming in, and I had no idea what I had done wrong. I tried to let it go; I tried to let _her_ go, but then I would catch glimpses of her around the school, or I would hear other parents talk about how wonderful of a teacher she was, and I just… couldn’t. So, when I had the chance to see her again, to spend time with her, to get to know her… even if it was only through my son and as a parent with his child’s teacher, I jumped at the chance.”  
  
Oliver fell silent, looking off into the distance in thought and self-reflection. When several moments went by and the younger man still didn’t say anything, Digg prompted him, “and now?”  
  
“If she just didn’t like me, I could handle that, Diggle.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Not very well.”  
  
Again, his observations went ignored. “But it’s more than that,” Oliver lamented, spinning around to face him, looking absolutely gutted. “Being near me, seeing me, _hurts_ her. And I’m not just talking about causing her to have an allergic reaction,” Oliver rushed to overrule what he believed John was about to say in objection. (For the record, he wasn’t.) “While I hate that that happened, I know it wasn’t intentional, and I believe she knows that as well. But there’s something about me, something I did, that drove her away from the cafe two and a half years ago, and, whatever it is, William being in her class is only making it worse… for both of us.”  
  
Losing all traces of his humor and teasing, Digg asked, “how do you mean?”  
  
“At the beginning of the school year, as ridiculous as it sounds for a twenty-nine year old man and father, I had a crush on her, on Miss Smoak.” Like Diggle _really_ needed that clarification. “But as I watched William grow so much with her as his teacher, as I listened to his stories about her, through my son’s eyes,” Oliver confessed, shrugging his shoulders and even flushing slightly as he glanced away in awkward embarrassment, “I fell in love with her.”  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
“I know, I know,” Oliver protested. He groaned. He exclaimed. Attempting to ward off the censure he must have been (incorrectly) expecting, he said, “I know it’s inappropriate, and I definitely know that my feelings are not returned. I mean, Digg, you should have seen her face.”  
  
“When,” he asked, though he suspected they were now getting to Oliver’s version of the cinematic grocery store moment.  
  
“I needed some fresh cranberries,” Oliver revealed, still obviously unaware of his _accessory_.  
  
“I can see that,” Diggle told him, nodding towards the plastic bag the younger man carried.  
  
Oliver looked down, staring at his own hand and what it held like he didn’t recognize either thing. After several seconds, he shook the apparent confusion and shock off, glancing back up at John as he continued, “while I was at the store, I ran into her.”  
  
“Felicity?”  
  
“Miss Smoak.” The way Oliver said her name it was like he was agreeing with Diggle’s guess (though he had no idea just how educated that guess was) and also correcting him. Briefly, it made Digg wonder if the _Miss Smoak_ aspect of Felicity’s persona and life was a _thing_ for Oliver, but he shook that thought away as quickly as it came to him, because, frankly, he just didn’t want to know. “She was in the bakery, eating cupcakes. When she saw me, she just… froze. Her eyes got so wide, and she blushed only for all of the color to quickly drain from her face. And then she just… ran. She turned around, and she ran away from me as fast as she could.”  
  
“And the cupcakes,” Diggle queried. He wasn’t sure if he was curious about Oliver’s reaction to the knowledge that Felicity wasn’t nearly as picky about her baked goods as she had led him to believe, or if he wanted confirmation that he was right and Felicity wasn’t the thief she proclaimed herself to be. Maybe both?  
  
“Oh, I paid for them,” Oliver reassured Digg… just as he had suspected. “When you tell her about William’s class change, will you let her know that she, that I… that I took care of that for her? After all, it’s the least that I could do after… everything.”  
  
“I never agreed to move William out of Felicity’s class.” When Oliver went to protest, Digg held up a hand, silencing the younger man. “Just… wait here for a moment, alright?”  
  
Without giving Oliver a chance to say anything – to agree or to disagree, Diggle slipped from the room, immediately heading towards his kitchen and avoiding the curious glances of his wife, children, and extended family. After rummaging around in the fridge for several minutes - no doubt making a mess of Lyla’s neatly organized domain, something he would definitely be hearing about later, John had no doubt, he returned to the foyer where he had left a confounded Oliver and a still hiding Felicity. While he kept his occupied left hand hidden behind his back, Digg knocked on the closet door, instructing, “it’s time to come out now, Felicity.”  
  
“What,” Oliver gasped, hissed under his breath. “She’s here?! She’s been here this whole time, and you didn’t say anything, Digg?!”  
  
For the moment, he didn’t pay the other man any mind, focusing instead on retrieving his first uninvited but not completely unwelcome guest. “Felicity,” Diggle called her name again when she didn’t respond, when she didn’t open the door. When he still didn’t receive a response, he tried the knob himself only to find it gripped and held in place on the other side. “Don’t make me break down my own door, Felicity Smoak, because I will,” he warned her, using his best principal voice. “You do not want me to anger my wife more than I already have tonight.”  
  
Grumbling and glaring, Felicity finally emerged, though she refused to look up from her slippers. Digg noticed that her _housecoat_ was gone, the tiny and stuffy constraints of her hiding place obviously getting to his favorite teacher. If he didn’t have more important things to say, a Christmas Eve dinner to salvage, and a relationship to kickstart, he might have commented on the wardrobe change. Plus, a tiny part of him had to admit that Felicity had probably already experienced her fair share of embarrassment for one evening… even if most of that embarrassment was her own damn fault for being so stubborn, noble, and infuriating.  
  
“Felicity, you are not a crumpet,....”  
  
“ … strumpet,” she automatically corrected him, whispering softly, though, in the otherwise silent room, Diggle knew Oliver could hear her, too.  
  
“... because Oliver is not married.” At his pointed pronouncement, her head popped up, eyes going wide in surprise. Because he could not stress what he was telling her enough, Diggle did not look away, though it was killing him not to see what Oliver’s reaction was to his words. Oh, the sacrifices Diggle made for his friends! “Oliver is not married. He’s not divorced. He’s not engaged. He has never been any of these things. He’s not even in a relationship with Samantha. They had a one night stand, she got pregnant, and now they co-parent. End of story… a story you would have known for yourself if you would’ve just picked up a gossip magazine for once in your life or googled him like everyone and anyone else.”  
  
Felicity swallowed thickly, her face suffused with flustered heat and her gaze still riveted to the floor. “Everybody has a past. If I don’t want parents digging into mine, then I shouldn’t research theirs.” She started speaking faster and faster as she continued to confess, “plus, because of how I felt… how I feel about him, it would have seemed even more wrong to look him up - just invasive… and all obsession-y. I already felt like a horrible enough person; I didn’t need to make it worse _or_ read about how happy, and in love, and perfect his life was with someone who wasn’t, well, me.”  
  
“Hmph,” John grunted, accepting her explanation but not entirely agreeing with it. However, he didn’t comment further, turning towards Oliver to level the younger man with his own dose of truth. “As for you,” he told the cafe owner, “Felicity,” and if he stressed her first name, Digg felt it was justified given his earlier fears, “doesn’t dislike you. Felicity doesn’t hate you. Felicity is in love with you… just as you are in love with her. And, for the record,” Diggle added, talking over Felicity’s gasp from behind him and the large and sappy grin that was coming from Oliver and nearly blinding Diggle, “Felicity's not gluten free, she likes bacon, and I’m pretty damn sure she appreciated your interest in and attention to her heritage… no matter what she might have said to the contrary.  
  
“Now,” he reached out, grabbing Oliver by the scruff of his neck with his right hand while, at the same time, corralling Felicity towards the same closet she had minutes before come out of at his insistence. After propelling them both into the small, confined space, he revealed what he had been hiding behind his back since his short trip to the kitchen, throwing it at them. “I don’t care how you do it, but this lack of communication between the two of you ends now. Tonight. Or so help me, you will spend the next ten days of winter break locked together in this closet.” He actually couldn’t lock the door, but they didn’t need to know that.  
  
“Is this… dill,” Oliver questioned, his face looking just as confused as his voice sounded, clutching the herb Digg had tossed at them.  
  
“I have two small children and a dog who will eat anything _but_ dog food, so, yes, it’s dill, because I can’t exactly have mistletoe now, can I?”  
  
As Diggle started to close the door on them, Felicity tried to protest. “Digg… John, wait. Please, don’t do this. We’ll talk… actually talk this time, I promise. But… it’s just, this closet is _really_ small. And hot. And Oliver’s really big and....”  
  
“I don’t want to….”  
  
“Not like that,” Felicity cringed, cutting off what was going to be Diggle telling her that he didn’t want to hear her complaints, or excuses, or empty promises. Then she opened her eyes back up, glanced at the man beside her, and started to amend, “well, I mean, he might be, but that’s not what….”  
  
Slamming the door closed, John told them, “I’ll check on you in a little while.”  
  
After dessert, Digg told himself. But then he considered just how exactly Oliver and Felicity might _clear the air_ , and he rethought his timeframe, because he didn’t need those two fools ruining gingerbread for him, too. On second thought, he’d let Lyla’s uncle do the honors when he went to leave later and, unsuspectingly, opened the closet to gather his and his wife’s coats. That way, if Oliver and Felicity put that sprig of dill to good use, Digg wouldn’t have to witness the after effects or see his favorite employee in anything less than completely dressed, winter pajamas or not. (It’d also be exactly what Uncle Dennis deserved after he no doubt ate all of Diggle’s favorite asparagus casserole, the glutton!)  
  
Mind made up and his foyer closet suspiciously quiet, Diggle grabbed his Santa jacket and hat and put them on once more, strolling back towards his family, his dinner, and his Christmas Eve celebration with a pep in his step and a song on his lips. “‘You mean you forgot cranberries, too? Then suddenly we laughed and laughed, caught on to what was happening; that Christmas magic’s brought this tale to a very happy ending.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, the song that Diggle and Felicity both reference and quote is "Christmas Wrapping" by The Waitresses. While perhaps not a full-blown inspiration for this little story, it certainly was a spark. 
> 
> Thanks,  
> Charlynn


	10. Valentine's Day - Epilogue

**Valentine’s Day - Epilogue**

If John Diggle lingered a little longer outside in the morning during drop-off, he thought it was justified. His office no longer felt like a safe space, his secretary no longer an ally. Because, at some point during the fall term, Gerry hadn’t just silently judged Diggle for his… _willingness_ to go above and beyond for his friends; he’d tattled. To Lyla. And, now, Digg couldn’t complain about his uncomfortable desk chair even if he wanted to, because, for Christmas, his wife had purchased him a treadmill desk.   
  
Basically, she’d told him ‘happy holidays, honey; I think you’re fat.’  
  
Needless to say, Christmas Eve had been the highlight of Digg’s winter break… and that was saying something, considering the fact that there had been no well deserved payback to Lyla’s uncle for eating all of John’s asparagus casserole. When the older man had gone to retrieve his and his wife’s coats before leaving, he’d found the jackets hanging undisturbed in the foyer closet – no Oliver, no Felicity, and no sprig of dill. Sure, there had been a pair of women’s pajama pants and a man’s sweater that hadn’t been there before, items of clothing that didn’t belong to any Diggle or Michaels in attendance that evening, but all that did was raise questions Digg wasn’t sure he wanted answered… not to mention the fact that Lyla made him scrub the closet before going to bed that night.   
  
Now, a month and a half later, John still felt betrayed. If a man couldn’t trust in his secretary’s discretion or his wife’s ability to find him attractive even if he had put on a few extra pounds, who could he trust? And it wasn't like Diggle hadn’t had a plan himself to shed the weight. Once he had Oliver, Felicity, and their nonsense squared away - and he’d accomplished that Christmas Eve, then the influx in baked goods would stop, and Digg would be forced to cut back on the sweets. Plus, he’d been meaning to take more recess duties, join more kickball games, maybe even start jogging with the family dog… to teach it some obedience and relieve it of its supply of never ending energy, of course. But then Lyla had _gifted_ him with that damn treadmill desk… at Gerry’s suggestion and insistence, and Digg started to avoid his office as much as he could.  
  
However, it didn’t matter how many extra, outdoor duties he picked up or volunteered for, a principal had to occasionally be in the principal’s office, so, on that Valentine’s Day morning, Digg might have found himself dragging his feet as he made his way inside of the elementary school, down the red, white, and pink festooned hallway, and into the administration suite. When he saw that Gerry wasn’t at his desk, a little of his surliness floated away. Diggle didn’t question his secretary's absence; he just appreciated it. Yes, it had been more than six weeks since he’d opened up his Christmas present, but Digg was holding onto his resentment as tightly as, obviously, his wife and secretary believed he held onto a tin of fudge.   
  
He was strolling towards the low coffee table that he had commandeered as a workspace - he might have lugged that damn treadmill desk into his office, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to actually use it - when a stressed and anxious, “you really need to help me, Digg,” made John skid to a stop so quickly that he had to discreetly check the tile floor behind him for scuff marks.   
  
“No,” Digg stated unequivocally, restarting his steps as he moved as far away from Oliver as his office would allow.   
  
“Please, Digg,” Oliver was nearly begging him. “I can’t…”  
  
“ _You can’t_ ,” John interrupted, not even wanting to hear what his friend had to say, had to ask of him. “Oh, no! If anyone _can’t_ right now, it’s me,” he stressed his words by pointing to himself. “I helped you for six months, and do you know what I got for all of my efforts?” Not giving Oliver a chance to respond, because, quite frankly, Diggle wanted the honor of answering the question himself. “I gained fifteen pounds, my wife routinely pinches my waist, and I’m borderline diabetic, Oliver!”  
  
Shrugging his shoulders, Oliver offered, “at least I didn’t bring any food this time?”  
  
Despite Digg’s rant, the younger man’s proposed upside was anything but. Diggle didn’t want to look at the situation glass half full; he wanted it all the way full… with milk, and he wanted some homemade cookies to dunk in it. After all, it was Valentine’s Day… or, well, almost Valentine’s Day. Technically, it wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day until the weekend, but Starling Prep was celebrating Valentine’s Day that afternoon with classroom parties and a Valentine’s Day box decorating competition, and John Diggle really missed Oliver Queen’s delicious goodies.  
  
Okay. That sounded kind of inappropriate and just plain wrong, and maybe Gerry and Lyla had a point when they passive-aggressively told him that he had a problem.   
  
Whether it was in penitence or punishment, John took a deep breath, calming himself down, before he rationally, politely, patiently queried, “what’s wrong now, Oliver?”  
  
Tossing his arms up in the air, Oliver complained, “Felicity won’t let me attend the Valentine’s Day party.”  
  
“So,” Diggle challenged, not seeing the problem. “Despite everything you might have claimed, the reason you really wanted to be room parent was to pursue Felicity. Well, she has been thoroughly pursued… thanks to yours truly.” While that was not something Digg ever wanted the other teachers, the school board, or Gerry ever hearing, it was still nonetheless true. “Why you would want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with your girlfriend this afternoon when there are fifteen second graders around instead of alone and on the actual holiday, I really cannot fathom.” And this was coming from a guy whose wife now proclaimed her favorite kind of ice cream to be ‘Chubby Hubby.’  
  
“Max Fuller is technically still her room parent,” Oliver reminded Diggle. And, yes, there was a full-blown pout on the young father’s face.   
  
Forget milk and cookies; Digg needed whiskey. And truffles.  
  
“I know for a fact that you catered the party, Oliver,” John challenged his friend’s complaint. “And Felicity herself arranged all of the activities for her students. Fuller’s nothing but a glorified chaperone at this point.”  
  
“Ha!,” Oliver barked out a laugh. “Max Fuller couldn’t even chaperone his own fiancée on the night of their….”  
  
“I really wouldn’t go there, Oliver,” Digg interrupted his friend. “Because, if anyone is going to look unfit to spend time with seven and eight year olds, it’ll be you if you finish that sentence.”  
  
“You’re right. And I’m sorry.” Before Digg could appreciate Oliver acknowledging his wisdom and apologizing, the other man rushed to add, “but Max Fuller is a….”  
  
“Remember where you are and keep it PG, man.”  
  
“... a penis-head?,” Oliver offered after hearing Diggle’s rushed warning, his face screwing up in what was no doubt an expression of his struggle to refrain from saying what he really thought of his fellow second grade parent.  
  
Shaking his head in dismay and dropping it into his hands out of exhaustion and frustration, Diggle could only lament, “I should have gone into private security.”  
  
“He’s the last person I want around my son or my girlfriend.”  
  
“Why,” Digg asked. And, yes, he realized that, in what he was about to say, he was definitely pulling the tiger’s tale, but he’d already come this far, and there was no turning back now. “Don’t you trust Felicity?”  
  
“Of course I trust her!”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So what,” Oliver parroted, evidently confused by Digg’s nonchalant and unimpressed response.  
  
“Exactly. So what,” John repeated, though, when he said the words, they held a much different meaning. “If you trust Felicity - which you say you do, then so what if Max Fuller spends an afternoon with her and a bunch of second graders.”  
  
“She shouldn’t have to put up with someone like him.” Oliver refused to accept defeat or listen to reason. “Max Fuller is a terrible room parent. He won’t help her at all. He’ll just stare at her… assets and try to catch a glimpse down her shirt the whole time. And he’s an even worse human being.”  
  
“Oliver, Felicity knew _all of this_ when she made Fuller her room parent. Did you ever stop to think that maybe she had a reason beyond trying to avoid you?” Deciding he had wasted enough time on this conversation, Diggle walked over to the pile of papers waiting his review and took a seat, hoping his friend would read the move as the dismissal it was meant to be.   
  
He didn’t. “Felicity knew what Max Fuller was like when she was just an attractive, younger woman to him. Now that she’s _my_ girlfriend? She has no idea what she’s in for this afternoon.”  
  
John paused in his paper shuffling, because, despite his intentions and what was in his best interest, he had to admit that the younger man had a point… not that he’d ever say that to Oliver. Sighing, he asked, “and what exactly do you want me to do about it, Oliver?”  
  
“I don’t know… can’t you, like, revoke his clearances... or something?”  
  
“Seeing as how you yourself also have your clearances, I know you’re aware that I do not grant them. The FBI does. So, no, I cannot revoke Fuller’s clearances.” Holding up a hand to prevent _whatever_ was going to come out of Oliver’s mouth next, he continued on, “and I promised Felicity that, when it came to making decisions about her classroom and her students - decisions like who her room parent would be, I wouldn’t interfere, and I’m not going back on that promise now just because, eight years ago, you were a playboy cad, and all those seeds you sowed are finally coming back to reap on your reformed… butt.”  
  
“It’s not my _butt_ that I’m worried about,” Oliver huffed.  
  
Diggle paid him no mind. “The only thing I can offer is to spend a few extra minutes in Felicity’s classroom when I make my party rounds later.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Oliver grumbled, obviously not pleased with John’s small concession. But he was also smart enough to not press his luck, waving a distracted hand in Digg’s direction as he showed himself out of the office and, hopefully, out of the school. “Thanks, Digg.”  
  
Dropping his work to lean back in his chair, exhaling deeply, Diggle closed his eyes and granted himself a moment to just… regroup. And Gerry wondered why he liked treats so much, Lyla why he had put on a few pounds! It wasn’t a sweet tooth; it was stress eating!

oo

“Oh, thank god you’re here, Digg! I need your help.”  
  
As Felicity tugged Diggle into the little room where all of her students’ cubbies were located, he started to swear. “Son of a…,” before catching himself. “You know, Oliver came to me about this.”  
  
Felicity froze, her back going ramrod straight. Without looking at him, she questioned, “he did?”  
  
“Yeah. He warned me that Fuller would pull this crap with you, especially now that you and Oliver are together. And he asked me to… watch out for you.” Man, he was _really_ not looking forward to having to tell Oliver Queen that he was right. About anything. But especially not this.   
  
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Felicity interrupted Digg’s thoughts. That… wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll yell at him later.”  
  
“Felicity, I don’t….”  
  
“Don’t worry, Digg,” she cut him off. Judging by the next words out of her mouth, Felicity obviously believed that he was going to advise against using her loud voice. “He likes it.”   
  
_That. That_ was _exactly_ what John had wanted to prevent her from telling him. He did not care how she kept her boyfriend in line; he just didn’t want to know about the how… or Oliver’s response to it. And he would tell Felicity just that… _after_ he made sure that she was okay. “Do you want me to ask Fuller to leave?”  
  
“Oh my god, this is not about Mr. Fuller,” Felicity exploded, throwing up her arms in exasperation. “I can handle Max Fuller. I _handled_ Max Fuller.”  
  
Did he even want to know? “Do I even want to know?” Apparently, Diggle did, because he was voicing his inner thoughts out loud now. Man, he was spending way too much time with his favorite teacher and her favorite idiot.   
  
“He’s hosting a tea party right now,” Felicity told him, sounding extremely pleased with herself, “complete with faux pearls, lace gloves, and pinkies held high.”  
  
Confused - oh so confused, Digg found himself asking, “then why the heck am I here right now?” Perhaps more importantly, why did the cubby room smell like a campfire… but not in a good way?  
  
Felicity spun around on the toes of her flats, wringing her hands together as she looked up at Diggle with… was that hope or trepidation on her face? If it was somehow both, he was so screwed. “So, you know how baked goods are like… our thing - our couple thing… for Oliver and me?”  
  
“I mean, not really,” John responded, reaching up to scratch his temple in doubt.   
  
“Digg, they’re totally our thing.”  
  
“Felicity, you ended up almost dying because of those Halloween cookies Oliver baked for you.”  
  
She waved her right hand at him, dismissing his claims. “That was just a misunderstanding.”  
  
“And you made yourself sick just thinking about whatever he made for you on parent-teacher night.”  
  
Felicity’s brow furrowed. She pouted. “That was totally the flu, Digg… the seven hour flu.”  
  
“Not to mention the fact that I still don’t know what happened to that maple bacon cheesecake, Felicity!” His favorite teacher might have flushed crimson, but she didn’t say a damn word. “Maple! Bacon! Cheesecake!”  
  
Looking away from him, Felicity whispered, “I’ll, uh, have Oliver make you another one.”  
  
He sighed. Okay, so it might have been more like a groan, but, man, that irritation was deserved. And earned. “The point is that, if you and Oliver have a couple thing, Felicity, it’s not baked goods; it’s miscommunication, misunderstandings, and making me lose my dang mind!”  
  
Surprising Digg, she didn’t argue with him; not surprising Digg, she somehow found a way to use his words against him. “Exactly. So, this time, I want to make sure that there’s no possible way for _any of us_ to misread what I’m saying. What I’m asking.”  
  
“Felicity, what are you…?” His words fell away as she led him over to the little counter next to the knee high water fountain, holding her hands out in a ta-da fashion.  
  
“So,” Felicity prompted him when John just stood there, mouth gaping. “What do you think?”  
  
“I think I’m already a married man.”  
  
Felicity just laughed at him. “Taste it,” she asked of him sweetly… even going so far as to fold her hands together in a begging motion. “Please?”  
  
“Uh, I don’t know, Felicity? You’ve told me about kitchen _in_ abilities.”  
  
“But I didn’t actually bake anything, Digg,” she protested, gesturing once more to the dessert displayed before them. “Stovetop only, I swear. I just stirred. And dumped. And arranged. And I’ve been… observing William’s cooking lessons every Saturday night.”  
  
Patting his stomach - and was it really that soft now?!, Diggle begged off, “you know, I’ve been trying to lay off the sweets recently.”  
  
“John Diggle, you taste tested every single thing Oliver baked for me….”  
  
“Just the pies,” he denied her claims. He might have _tasted_ his fair share of Oliver’s confections, but he didn’t _test_ them, and he sure as hell didn’t get to eat all of them.   
  
“ … so you _will_ try this one, very important rice krispie treat, or so help me….”  
  
“Fine,” he snapped. He relented. When Felicity handed him a baggy full of scraps versus cutting him a piece from the pan, Diggle’s worry climbed another notch. Instead of voicing his concern, however, he whined, “why don’t I get any of those little candy pieces?”  
  
“Because I used all of them to compose my message,” Felicity explained calmly and rationally.   
  
Once Digg opened the bag, though, her composure disappeared. Looking up from underneath his brow, he found his favorite teacher bouncing on her toes and biting her bottom lip in suspense and excitement. Shaking his head in amusement, John had to admit to himself that she made an adorable picture. As much as he complained about somehow still being smack dab in the middle of Oliver and Felicity’s relationship, they were cute together, sweet. He wished them the best of luck, and he would embarrass the hell out of them when he spoke at their wedding… whether he was asked to do so or not. In the meantime, even before tasting the marshmallow snack, Diggle offered a piece of praise, “hey, at least they’re dark chocolate, right? That’s… health _ier_.” And then he popped a big chunk into his mouth, biting down.  
  
Pain. So much pain. All of the pain. The only other thing Digg was aware of was Felicity apprehensively telling him, “actually, no. That’s just the marshmallows. I think? Because marshmallows always brown… like that? When they’re heated. Like s’mores?”  
  
“No, not just the marshmallows,” Digg choked out. And choked was only too accurate of a description, because he was pretty sure he was dying. Or, you know, in a ton of discomfort.   
  
“Really,” Felicity asked him… not so much doubting his response but just regretting it. Never before had anyone ever looked or sounded so sad.   
  
“I think I broke a tooth,” John told her. Spitting… whatever it was he had just tried to eat out into his palm, he confirmed his suspicions. “No, make that I definitely lost a tooth.”  
  
And then Felicity Smoak, Diggle’s favorite employee and friend, started crying. Somehow, up until that point, they had managed to avoid attracting any attention, but as soon as the first tear trickled down her cheek, as soon as the first sniffle and whimper left her mouth, fifteen students came running, a feather boa wearing Max Fuller lagging behind. They all gathered around Felicity, wondering what was wrong and worrying about their teacher. For several moments, she couldn’t respond, simply patting them on their backs or smoothing their hair. And Diggle? Digg just stood there, worrying about how in the world he was going to explain this to his wife, to his secretary, and to his dentist. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice one particular seven year old slip away… only to rejoin their group on the heels of his bellowing, worried father.  
  
“Felicity,” Oliver could be heard, calling out for his girlfriend down the hallway, long before he could be seen. At the open entrance to the cubby room, he slid to a stop, looking onto the scene with fear and fury. “You,” he pointed at Max Fuller before charging into the already crowded space. “What did you do to her?” The students parted like the Red Sea, and then Oliver was taking Felicity into his arms, holding her tenderly, without waiting for an explanation from his room parent nemesis. Felicity practically burrowed her way into Oliver’s chest, still sniffling, and Oliver split his time between bussing kisses along her forehead, her hairline, and glaring in Max Fuller’s direction. And, throughout all of this, the students just stared on, captivated.   
  
Oh man, Diggle could just hear the concerned phone calls from helicopter parents already!  
  
Apparently, Felicity was too upset to say anything, and Max Fuller looked so repulsed and traumatized by such an emotional display from a woman that he didn’t even attempt to defend himself… or poke the bear even further by mouthing off to Oliver, so it was up to Diggle to yet again explain and fix the situation. If Oliver and Felicity would just talk to each other like a normal, functioning couple instead of using red, white, and pink M&Ms to spell out marriage proposals on torture devices better known as burnt rice krispie treats, then they’d all be better off _and_ Diggle would still have all of his teeth.   
  
“Look at the counter, man,” he barked at Oliver. And, whoa!, talking hurt like… something an elementary school principal couldn’t even say in his own mind. “But don’t eat it,” he mumbled in warning.  
  
At first blush, one would think it too soon for Oliver and Felicity to be getting engaged. After all, they had only been dating for about six weeks. But, if one counted their six months of pre-dating - aka the strangest, most harmful to John’s waistline mating ritual ever!, then they had been a couple (of impossible idiots) for nearly eight months. Plus, when you knew, you knew. And Digg knew. Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak were _it_ for each other. (That might have been because there was no one else in the world crazy enough for either one of them, but that still equated to Oliver and Felicity being a match made in… Digg’s personal hell.) So, yeah, he wasn’t surprised at all by the proposal already coming now, though he was a little stunned that it was Felicity popping the question instead of Oliver.   
  
Diggle lifted a hand to cup the side of his face as he watched the comedy of fools and their errors happening right before him. Oliver leaned over to his left, and then his head whipped back to stare at Felicity. She started biting her lip and looking up at him through her smudged, crooked glasses. Then her toe bouncing was back, and Oliver was lifting her by the waist and spinning the two of them around despite all of the four foot tall obstructions surrounding them.   
  
At least, libel suits due to injury by celebrating idiots was better than Starling Prep footing the therapy bill for fourteen students being traumatized by their second grade teacher making out with her newly minted fiancé. As for that fifteenth student, he was standing off to the side, still holding that very same teacher’s cell phone, a phone he knew the passcode to because she was dating his father, a phone he had obviously used to call his dad to tell him that Miss Smoak was upset and crying. Judging by how quickly Oliver had… come to her rescue, Digg would guess that he had been sitting outside in his parked car like a real creeper.   
  
It was all just completely ridiculous and kind of romantic, and he was never eating another muffin, piece of cake, or brownie again.   
  
“Does somebody want to drive me to the dentist already?! I’m still holding my dang tooth here!”  
  
If Oliver and Felicity were this bad when they were just getting engaged, he didn’t even want to think about what would happen when they started having babies.   
  
He should probably look into upping his life insurance policy. 


End file.
